


Quietus

by AppleJack (AvocadoLove)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Id Fic, M/M, Moral Ambiguity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-27
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-28 05:39:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvocadoLove/pseuds/AppleJack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> <br/>Modern day slave!AU</p><p>In life, Eames is a beaten down slave, but in the dreamworld he's smooth, dangerous, and sexy. And even though he's Dom's property, he's gotten under Arthur's skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP currently in the kink meme. Due to the subject line drama (we can edit them now, but for how long?) I'm cleaning it up and slowly moving it over to this archive.
> 
> Anyway, this is a modern slave!AU. This means there are **TRIGGER WARNINGS** for slavery, implication of previous non-consensual sex, classism, brutality, and possible dubious consent depending on how you see it, treating people as objects, torture, suicide (in a dream), mild physical abuse, moral ambiguity by the good guys, and forced silencing. I'll try to remember to add more warnings if the story needs it, but needless to say this fic is chock full 'o issues.
> 
> I don't want to give the impression this is some sort of ultra-dark fic, because it isn't, but the last thing I want to do is trigger anyone. So if you are at all sensitive to these issues I ask that you give this fic a pass. You are reading at your own risk.

* * *

"You realize that this isn't like buying a dog," Arthur said as he lengthened his step to keep up with Dom's intent stride. It was coming onto late afternoon, and the damp streets of London were filling up as people were let off work. Arthur almost shouldered into a pair of tourists who had stopped right in the middle of the sidewalk to point up at some fascinating building.

"That's right," Dom said, with a ghost of his old humor, "for one thing I won't have to take it for walks to go to the bathroom."

"It means more expenses: food, hotel, airline tickets..."

Dom didn't seem to hear him. He had that almost manic gleam in his eyes. The one Arthur used to associate with a crazy, but brilliant scheme being hatched, back when Mal was alive and his best friend wasn't internationally wanted for murder. Now, Arthur had learned the hard way to associate that gleam with trouble: some impulsive action which would only make Arthur's life harder, not easier.

"How often does a slave with these skills come on the market?" Dom asked.

"They don't," Arthur said, flatly. That was his point. "Not through these channels. It could be a serial runaway, or murdered its last owner. There's no way to tell without a thorough background check." Which, for obvious reasons, wasn't available on the black market.

"If we had a forger, we could have pulled off the Goldstein job."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

Dom slowed to a stop and squinted at him. "Do you have a problem with my owning a slave? You never objected when Mal and I brought on Lucy to help with the children."

"No," Arthur said, honestly. His father had several slaves, who had worked for him in the family-owned machine shop. He remembered them fondly – like docile, silent work horses who'd always spared a smile for a curious little boy. When their years of service were finished, his father always granted them start-up money to get them on their feet as free men. Besides, world-wide humanitarian laws ensured that no one was actually _born_ into slavery nowadays. In these more enlightened times, you had to earn your way there.

It was just...

"What are the chances of a skilled forger landing in our path, much less one you can afford? It's too good to be true." Arthur shook his head. "This is either a scam, the slave is defective, or at the end of its servitude sentence."

Dom hummed under his breath. "Forgers hire out at only a little less than the cost I'm looking at buying this slave. Even if it's only able to complete two or three jobs, it will still pay for itself."

"Dom," Arthur was not begging for him to see reason. He was _not_. "Listen to me. This isn't a good idea."

But Dom only smiled at him – the sad, pained half-grimace which seemed to be all he could conjure up since Mal had leapt to her death. "We'll go in and take a look, and if it wasn't I want, I'll back out. Okay?"

It was as good of a concession as he was likely going to get. Arthur nodded, and prepared himself to follow Dom on yet another half-thought-out scheme. At least, if the slave were female and pretty, it might help his friend get over the pain of losing Mal.

 

* * *

The slave was male.

He was shaved bald, like all were of their status, and stood impassively before Arthur and Dom after the shopkeeper led him from the back by a fine silver chain affixed to his gleaming Quietus Correction Collar.

 _He's huge_ , Arthur found himself thinking, dumbly.

The slave was barefoot and utterly naked save for a white loincloth tied about his hips. That showed off... just about everything. He was of a height with Arthur, maybe a half inch shorter, but solidly built – almost blocky with thick ropes of muscle across his back, arms, shoulders. His stomach was flat, more hard than chiseled, with more sloping muscle, and his thighs looked equally thick and powerful. There weren't many visible scars to speak of, although he did have a collection of tattoos looping around the cords in his arms. Evidence of a misspent youth before his enslavement, most likely. No one in their right mind would pay to have their slave tattooed.

He was... handsome, Arthur realized, after a stunned moment. For all that he was built like a living tank, he had a nice face. A well cut jawline, light grey eyes, and a straight and even nose. And those lips... people paid money to have lips as full as what came naturally to this man.

The slave didn't speak as they looked him over, didn't make any sound at all... but then again, that _was_ the point of a Quietus collar.

"This is a fine specimen," the shopkeeper said, proudly. He had a leather riding crop in one hand, and tapped the slave's thigh with it in a signal to turn around. The slave did, slowly, to show off the goods. His face betrayed nothing and his eyes stared out somewhere into the middle distance. Utterly removed.

"Approximately thirty-four years of age," the shopkeeper went on. "His previous owner used him for manual labor, as you can see." The tip of the crop ran over the bar of smooth muscle across the slave's shoulders.

Dom stepped forward, hands on his hips as he examined the slave. He gestured for the slave to face them again. Arthur didn't know why he bothered. It wasn't as if they were buying for the body.

"How long has he been in bondage?" Dom asked, with a professional air.

The shopkeeper glanced down at a clipboard he held in his hand. The slave's registration papers. "Ten years this last month. Plenty of time left on the contract. You can check with the Royal Office for the exact dates for a small fee, but I always guarantee at least three years left of service. "

The slave twitched at that, though Dom and the shopkeeper were discussing vaccination records and didn't appear to notice. His eyes flashed with something that might have been anger, or despair, but the emotion was gone again before Arthur could identify it.

"... Which means he's well broken in, with the collar for insurance, of course," the shopkeeper continued. "He's strong as an ox, too. My physician cleared him of all major injuries. Beyond that, I have a two year warranty on dental and normal wear and tear that comes free with every purchase."

"I'm more interested in his _other_ skills," Dom said, pointedly.

The shopkeeper smiled, and after checking the front door and turning the open sign around to closed, gestured for Arthur and Dom to follow him to the back.

The front of the shop had been simple and uncluttered, if a little dusty. Innocuous, was probably the right word. The back rooms of the shop, however, smelled like piss and despair.

Arthur tried not to wrinkle his nose as the shopkeeper led them past rows of heavily barred, steel cages – mostly empty, thank God – and wet, straw lined floors.

There was another room further beyond, which the shop keeper opened with a key. The air inside there was cleaner, and the room was furnished with a single leather couch and a PASIV set up upon a small stool.

Arthur stepped forward to check on the machine – it was only prudent when one was about to use an intravenous drip. He found it well maintained, with sterile needles still in their packages, and all the inspection stamps up to date. It was a small, two-port device, the type usually reserved for personal use.

"It's fine," he said, stepping back as Dom took his seat on the couch.

The shopkeeper jerked sharply upon the slaves chain with a growled, "Well, get on with it then."

The slave moved forward and knelt by Dom's side. He reached to the PASIV, took out one of the leads and affixed the cannula to the IV. His motions were smooth and economical, probably from long years of practice. Dom held out his arm and the slave found the vein on the first try.

"Very clean," Dom said, in approval. He looked at the shopkeeper. "An hour of dreamtime should be more than enough to find out what I need."

Arthur watched as the slave programmed the device, showing no trouble at all with the concept of numbers or the chemical to body-weight ratio, and fitted the second needle himself. He did not take the couch, but instead arranged himself neatly on floor, his back against the wall.

The shopkeeper depressed the plunger and both men's eyes fluttered shut.

Five minutes was an awkwardly long time to wait in complete silence, and Arthur caught the shopkeeper sneaking sidelong glances at him. Before the man could offer him something like a two for one special on slaves, he asked, "Why was this one sentenced to slavery?"

The shopkeeper's smile was utterly false. "Those records are sealed, sir."

 _Of course they are,_ Arthur thought, and contented himself with the knowledge that an hour of dreamtime was more than enough for Dom to root out if the slave were a murderer or a psychotic.

Dom and the slave awoke again, five minutes on the dot.

"Well?" Arthur asked, hoping Dom found something horrible enough to put him off.

Dom didn't reply at first. He looked thoughtful as the slave rose to his feet and helped to unhook him. "He's good," he said, at last.

 _Damnit_ , Arthur thought.

The slave made no indication that he'd heard. He didn't meet anyone's eye at all as he quick rewound the lead, disposed of the used needles, and then took himself unobtrusively to the corner.

There was no doubt he had been well trained, but Arthur didn't miss how Dom's eyes followed the other man – his expression oddly pensive. What had he seen down there?

Before he could ask, Dom looked to the shopkeeper. "Let's talk about that price," he said.

* * *

An hour later Dom handed over a thick roll of cash – it was nearly his entire savings, and if he wasn't careful he could easily fall into debt and be in danger of being made a slave himself – and the shopkeeper handed him the thin silver chain which led to the slave's collar. That was mostly a symbolic gesture. The real restraint was a remote controlled fob that was keyed in with Dom's fingerprint, and controlled the Quietus collar. The signal ran through wireless cell phone towers, making it difficult for an escaping slave to avoid its master's wrath.

"What's he called?" Dom asked, after the shopkeeper counted and recounted his money.

The shopkeeper looked again at his papers. "Eames."

Eames stared at a fixed point above their heads, blank and impassive as if it didn't matter to him that he had been sold at all.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Arthur let himself into the abandoned office complex they were using as a workspace, juggling a small box of bran muffins, two cups of coffee, his briefcase, and a plastic shopping bag. He was nearly a half-hour late, but he doubted Dom would notice.

Sure enough, as he stepped inside, he caught sight of Dom sitting hunched over a blueprint of the building he intended to use as a template for their job. Dom looked up at the sound of Arthur's footsteps. "Coffee?" he asked hopefully, then glanced at the shopping bag. "What's that?"

"A few sets of clothes." Arthur looked around until he spotted Eames who was sitting unobtrusively in a corner. And as Arthur feared, he was dressed in what looked like Dom's old sweat pants, a tee-shirt and flip flops.

"Seriously, Dom?"

"What?" Dom asked, around a bite of muffin. Then he waved his permission for Arthur to go for it, which was fortunate because, while the slave was Dom's property — seriously. Flip-flops.

Arthur walked to the slave and wordlessly shoved the bag into his hands. Eames blinked at him, then down at the bag as if he couldn't quite grasp what was going on. The skin around his eyes was more shadowed than it had been yesterday, almost bruised looking with fatigue.

"Those are for you," Arthur said, and decided to elaborate when he got a blank stare in return. Clear and simple orders were the best. Maybe that was why he had been so cheap for a forger. "Find something you like, go to the bathroom and put it on. Then return here."

Clutching the bag almost uncertainty, Eames shuffled off to the bathroom. He returned ten minutes later wearing a light green button-up, a pair of tan dress-slacks and leather oxfords.

Arthur eyed him, pleased that he had gotten the sizes close to right. The shirt was a little tight around the shoulders, but otherwise...

"Do the shoes fit?" he asked.

Eames gave a nod.

"Good." Arthur gestured to the PASIV device, set up around three lawn chairs. "Plug yourself in."

Dom looked up from his blueprint. "You're taking him under?"

Arthur shrugged. "I want to gauge his capabilities for myself."

Dom frowned in reply, but didn't object, instead going back to his blueprint and reaching for his coffee. Well, he wasn't a morning person.

The slave tried to assist Arthur with the needle, but Arthur waved him away. He had always done the insertion himself, as he had the firm belief that if something was to go into his body, he would be the one to do it.

After adjusting the settings to make himself both dreamer and the subject, Arthur glanced at Eames, made sure he was ready, and reached to push the plunger.

 

* * *

 

The park was one that Arthur had used many times in dreams – he considered it his own personal subconscious wallpaper of sorts. It was a small space with a walking path, fields of blooming white clover, and a chuckling brook bordered by swaying willow trees. The rest changed as his subconscious saw fit. Today, for example, the brook fed into a koi pond stocked with lazily circling fish.

Arthur tipped his face up towards the warm sun overhead, reveling in it after weeks of overcast London sky.

"Well now, this is a sight," said a voice.

Arthur glanced around. A man stood not too far off... and it took him a moment to realize that it was Eames.

Eames' projection of his mental self was thinner than in life – still muscled, but not so overly built. He wore a casual cream-colored sports jacket over a navy blue shirt and sensible slacks. The Quietus collar was gone, and his hair was grown out – light brown, and neatly parted to one side. He actually grinned at Arthur as he stuck his hands in his pocket, seeming quite devil-may-care as he looked around the park setting.

"So what'll it be then, lovely?" Eames asked, in posh clip that rang of pure Oxbridge. "Or would you rather I call you master?"

"Just Arthur will be fine," he said, giving himself a mental shake. It wasn't often that he was taken by surprise, but he had expected something more of the lines of 'Hulk SMASH' from the slave, if he spoke at all. Not... this.

Arthur gestured to some tables nearby, usually set up for public chess matches. He took his seat, but Eames still remained standing. The smile curving his full lips looked a little strained.

"What's your fancy?" Eames asked again.

Arthur, who had pulled out a folder from his jacket and was busy arranging the summery upon the table, glanced up. "Excuse me?"

Eames stepped forward, and in blink he was a woman – blonde and slinky in a golden evening gown. "Is this what you want?" she asked, canting her eyes downward demurely. Then she shifted again, now a man in his mid-twenties with floppy dark hair and a nose piercing. As Arthur watched, his pink tongue flicked out to lick suggestively his lower lip. "Or this, perhaps?"

"Stop that," Arthur snapped, feeling his cheeks heat.

In a flash, Eames was himself again, hands still stuffed in his pockets, but his eyes darted about. Uncertain. "It's what I was bought for, isn't it?"

"Is that what Dom told you?" Arthur demanded, his eyes narrowing.

Eames shrugged a shoulder. "He didn't exactly state my duties, no. Although it would follow. Why else would you need a forger?"

For a moment, Arthur found himself torn between indignation and pity. Dom hadn't told his slave a thing – probably out of ignorance, more than malice – and of course Eames would be unable to ask.

It was no wonder Eames had looked like he hadn't slept at all last night.

Arthur rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "Sit down."

Eames took the seat in front of him, leaning back and hooking an elbow behind the chair. His face betrayed nothing but polite interest, although now that Arthur was looking for it, he recognized the tense set of his shoulders. He was a man who expected something unpleasant, but was determined to grin and bear it.

"Dom didn't purchase you for... dream sex," Arthur said, then amended, "Well, some mark's may require... distraction, but I'm not anticipating it for this one."

"Marks?"

Arthur considered him for a long minute before he spoke, "What did you do for your last master?"

"Whatever he wanted," Eames said, with a grin that looked almost filthy. Arthur was certain in that moment it was an act.

"Specifically."

Eames shrugged again. A lit cigarette appeared between his two fingers and he took a long drag before tapping it against an ashtray that was suddenly there on the table. "Farmwork, mostly. He had a holding outside of Kent. I would tend to the sheep and horses, fix the tractors when they broke, muck the stables, fix the roof.... That sort of thing."

"And the forgery?" Arthur pressed.

"Ah." Eames paused. "Well, that was mostly a side-business of his, you see. My night job." He went quiet for so long that Arthur nearly prompted him again before he spoke. "I'd be anyone the client wanted me to be. An ex-lover, come again. Their dead child or a parent. A celebrity to fuck. A cheap whore they wouldn't get in trouble for slapping around." He swallowed, eyes going briefly distant. The confident act slipped, just a little. "A hated boss they could make beg for mercy... The list was endless, really."

 _I will die before I let anyone make me into a slave,_ Arthur thought, then cleared his throat into his fist.

"Our work is a little different than that." He tapped the papers in front of him, an exact copy of the dossier he'd made up top. "Have you ever heard of extraction?"

* * *

Arthur blinked awake after the musical kick, and received an unpleasant jolt as he glanced over and saw Eames again: hair shaved to his scalp, thick and powerful after years of toil, and silent as the grave.

Eames had already rolled to his feet and took a step forward, reaching out as if to assist Arthur. He caught himself with a slow shake his head, probably recalling that Arthur had asked not to be assisted, before he tended to his own IV.

Arthur remembered how Eames laughed down in the dream when he told him that he and Dom were criminals.

"How did it go?" Dom asked, from his desk.

"I think he understands what will be expected of him, now," Arthur said.

Arthur gestured for Eames to follow him and went to his desk to pull out a thick folder. The dossier of the mark was in there, along with the mark's wife, who Eames was to forge. "Read through this and memorize it," he said absently, handing it over. Then he paused. "You... can read, right?"

The very corner of Eames' mouth gave a little twitch, too small and quick to be considered even the ghost of a smile. It was still more reaction than Arthur had seen from him while topside all day. The slave didn't reply, of course. Only tucked the file under an arm and went back to his corner, sitting down in his chair and flipping to the first page.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

Their new forger's abilities were put to the test a few days later, once Dom had finished his modeling for the maze – it was to only be one level and Arthur privately thought he was letting himself get too caught up in the nuances; it had taken Dom double the time it usually would.

Arthur, Dom, and Eames went down together and Arthur watched with open fascination how Eames regarded himself in the reflection of a nearby window, and then was abruptly a middle aged woman – bird thin with wide blue eyes and dark, shoulder length hair.

"This is a good likeness of her," Dom said as he strolled around the forgery of Mrs. Wilcox, looking her up and down in much the same manner he had when he had originally bought Eames. "You pulled this together from Arthur's dossier?"

"I did," Mrs. Wilcox confirmed demurely, and went on in a good approximation of a general American accent, "She and her husband have been married going on twenty years, though. Without interacting directly with her I'm not sure if I'll be able to forge her mannerisms enough to fool him."

Dom didn't answer for a moment. He seemed lost in thought, staring down the street. "Dreams always seem real when you're in them," he said, and Arthur tried not to wince: that had been one of Mal's favorite sayings. "It's only when we wake that we realize something was strange."

"Mrs. Wilcox was born and raised in Boston," Arthur interjected, with a glance at Dom. "I'll have you listen to some audio files of the local dialect so you can get a feel for her speech."

"I'd like that," she said.

"Are you able to hold up the forgery under pressure?" Dom asked, suddenly. "Or pain?"

"... I've done it before," she said, after a notable hesitation. Her large doe eyes watched Dom with unease, clearly expecting to be put to the test.

Arthur's stomach give a little twist. "It's good to know for the future," he said, with another half-annoyed glance at Dom. For a brilliant extractor, his friend had some blind spots. "Things will occasionally get ugly between us and the projections. Most of the time we only get one shot at an extraction, so it's important that we keep to the plan, no matter the cost."

She nodded, visibly relaxing.

"Okay, that's good enough for now." Dom made the cut-off gesture, indicating that Eames should drop the forgery.

The woman resolved back into Eames again, looking as he had in Arthur's dream of the park; without his collar, but dressed in a short-sleeve paisley button-up shirt and khaki slacks -- casual and leaning against the side of a building. "I live to serve my master," he said, his tone dry as an old bone.

Dom cut him a sharp look, but didn’t otherwise comment. "We've got time to do a run-through of the maze. Arthur, keep an eye out places you want me to put bolt holes."

* * *

Arthur had always admired Dom's dreams, ever since that day, nearly four years ago, when he had been a ex-solider cum architecture student fresh off a tour of Afghanistan, and a young professor he'd had half a crush on had asked him to join he and his wife in a little experiment of the mind.

Dom's subconscious was rich and complex. He dreamed in layers of vivid colors, textures and sound.

The three of them walked down a bustling market-place street, filled with vendors, fruit stands, craft stalls and the like. The air was thick with many conversations, snatches of music, and the smell of fried food. It reminded Arthur of county fairs his parents had taken him to when he was a kid, especially when he saw a young girl in overalls leading a yearling calf down the street with a blue ribbon on its bridle.

Arthur suddenly had a strong craving for cotton candy.

He wasn't the only one taken in by the charm of the dream. Eames was looking about in active interest, a smile curving his lips. As Arthur watched, Eames drifted over to one crafter's stall, and Arthur stepped over to join him.

"The details are exquisite," Eames said, picking up what looked to be a glass figurine of an apple and holding it to the light.

"That's why Dom's one of the best."

"That's a relief," Eames said, lightly. "It would be a pity to be owned by one of the worst." The apple changed in his hand, becoming solid and organic. Eames bit into it with a satisfying, wet crunch, then held it out to Arthur. "Care for a bite?"

Arthur shook his head, bemused, while the shopkeeper scowled at them.

"Are you going to pay for that?" the projection demanded.

"I haven't any money," Eames replied, cheeky as you please.

"Jesus," Arthur muttered, and fished out a twenty to hand over to the merchant. He gestured curtly for Eames to follow him away from the stall – then realized that Dom was nowhere in sight, lost among the crowd.

"Are you?" Eames blurted, then added in answer to Arthur's questioning glance. "The best at what you do."

Arthur thought about it. "If I'm not, I'll work on it until I am." He stood on his toes, trying to look over the press of the crowd around him and spot Dom. "Can you see him?"

Eames did the same, but shook his head. "I'm certain he's about. The dream is still holding up, isn't it? Though this mob is a nuisance."

"It's supposed to be," Arthur said. "Having a large group of people can add weight to a small maze like this one, and disguise any rough edges." But it wouldn't be very useful if they could lose track of each other this easily. Arthur made a mental note to discuss widening the streets with Dom when they woke up.

He and Eames had to scoot quickly to the side to allow a bicycle-pulled-rickshaw to roll past. The driver was drenched with sweat, and nearly shouldered Arthur aside when he didn't move fast enough. Arthur stumbled, but Eames' reached out to steady him, his grip effortlessly powerful.

Eames nodded to the retreating rickshaw. "His projections are the focused sort, aren't they? They all know exactly where they're going – Hello, and what are you selling?" This last part was said to a tiny, dark merchant girl, no older than eight who stood before them and shyly held up fresh bouquets of fresh-cut flower in a basket.

"Flowers," the girl said in an adorable lisp. "Two a-penny."

Eames caught Arthur's eye. "Two for a penny? That _is_ a good price."

Arthur shook his head and stood tall again, trying to hunt out a flash of Dom in the milling chaos around them. The allure of the country market was wearing thin. The best window for taking the mark was the day after tomorrow, and they still had to memorize the maze inside and out and do a final dress rehearsal before that and... where the hell had Dom taken himself to?

He turned back to see Eames knelt down on one knee, chatting companionably with the girl.

Arthur scowled and walked back over to them. "Quit messing around. We're here to work."

"These are your friend's projections. Why don't you tell them that?" Eames said as he exchanged a whole, unbitten apple for a daisy. As he took flower in his hand, he spoke to the girl in not half-bad Hindi, _"He's very strict, isn't he?"_

The girl giggled and nodded her head.

Arthur grit his teeth. He was used to working with professionals, or at least people who had a vested interest in seeing the job done right. Being a point man sometimes meant giving a boot to the ass to get what he needed, but that was with volunteers, or people at least being paid well to do their work. What interest did a slave have, other than to do just enough so that he wasn't punished?

He turned and walked away, intending to find a high place to fall from, and then kick everyone back up top once he was awake. They could reconvene and run through the dream again. Eames was Dom's property, _his_ problem if he wasn't going to take the work seriously.

But Arthur had not taken more than twenty paces before Eames was once again walking beside him, now inexplicably holding three flowers in one hand. "My apologies," he said, easily. "I couldn't resist brushing up on my Hindi. You know how languages fall so quickly from the tongue."

Arthur's brow furrowed, his irritation dimming a little to be replaced by curiosity. "How many languages can you speak?"

Eames flashed a crooked grin. "None, currently. In a dream, I'm fluent in French and Swahili, and I'm passable in a small handful of others."

"You learned those before you were put into collar?"

"Yes," Eames answered, but did not elaborate.

 _So he's educated. What did he do to end up as a slave?_ Arthur wondered, but did not ask. Eames – well, Eames in a dream struck him as mildly impulsive. Eames topside struck him as... nothing much at all, other than quiet and wary and watchful. (He was always watching.)

It could have been a debt with the wrong people that Eames unable to settle, or any number of crimes. The United States still had capital punishment for murder, but most countries felt that stripping their citizens of all dignity and rights was punishment enough. Arthur had a distant cousin who had served five years as a slave for armed robbery.

But Eames had served double that, and had more years to go according to the man who had sold him.

"Well," Eames said, cutting into his thoughts. It seemed as if he didn't like to go more than a few minutes without speaking, probably because he could. He looked around at the gradually thinning crowd and gave a shrug. "It seems my esteemed master has taken himself some place else. What shall we – Arthur, on your six!"

Sharp agony exploded in his chest. Arthur looked down, dumbly, to see three bloody metal points sticking out from just under his ribs. Someone had impaled him from behind, with what looked like a pitchfork.

He heard Eames curse, but it sounded distant and muffled. The taste of blood swelled in Arthur's mouth, along with the vague tingle of fear that he'd never quite been able to kick. He was dying – it was only a dream, but he was dying.

As Arthur collapsed, his vision going dull, he saw what looked like a pair of ankle strap black heels step over him and advance towards Eames... the sound of gunfire...

* * *

Arthur awoke to a lingering pain in his chest. He sat up slowly, resisting the urge to rub at it.

Dom and Eames were still under, but as Arthur looked on, Eames' eyes snapped open.

"What happened?" Arthur demanded. "Why did the projections turn on us?" He realized the moment the words were out of his mouth, how stupid that was. "Nevermind," he said, as Eames only looked at him. Gone was the quick (and mildly irritating) man that had only been a dream. Now was only the dull-eyed slave.

"Start the musical count-down," Arthur said, nodding to the iPod headphones still in Dom's ear.

He supposed he could have just knocked Dom out of his chair, but Arthur usually only reserved that for emergencies.

Dom woke with a gasp after the timer had counted down twenty seconds.

"Where were you?" Arthur asked, but Dom only shook his head and sat up, holding out his arm so that Eames could remove the needle for him.

Arthur frowned. "We should go under again and finish what we started."

"No," Dom said quickly. He looked pale, Arthur realized, almost shaken as he continued, "No, we can do a final walk-through tomorrow. I should..." he trailed off, shaking his head and grabbed a swab of alcohol, running it briskly over his own arm before he rose.

"Are you okay?"

"Me? Yeah." Dom flashed a smile at him, but his eyes were strained. Arthur saw him reach into his pocket where he kept his totem. Mal's old totem. "Work with Eames on that Boston accent. He can sleep here tonight – use a lawn chair. I'll be back in the morning."

"Wait," Arthur stood. "Dom—"

"It will be fine." Dom's hand fell to his other pocket. He removed the fob that controlled the Quietus collar and held it up between two fingers. "He won't run."

Then he turned and walked away with Arthur staring incredulously after him. Dom's new bought slave running off was the least of his concerns right now. They were set to grab the mark in a little less than forty-eight hours.

Arthur let out a frustrated breath, then saw Eames looking at him, a question clear in his eyes.

"His wife passed away about three months ago," Arthur said, and rose, removing his own IV with practiced movements. He didn't let himself think about it much, himself, the grief was still too raw. "He hasn't been the same, since."

Arthur turned away towards his laptop before he could see Eames' reaction, or if he had any at all.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

What reservations Arthur had for the job proved to be unfounded. Eames smoothly incorporated Mrs. Wilcox's non-rhotic Boston accent into the forgery's accent. Mr. Wilcox, their mark, didn't expect a thing. Dom's maze was a little less vivid, a little more... washed out from the previous version, but all the projections behaved themselves.

The extraction was pulled off with textbook ease.

After they were all topside − the mark dosed to the gills with sedative, sleeping it off in his hotel room − Arthur did a final sweep of their workspace before he closed the lid on the PASIV.

"That went better than I expected," he admitted.

"That's because you're a pessimist," Dom replied, though he was almost smiling. He had, in this one job, nearly recouped the entire cost of purchasing Eames. There was a certain advantage of having a three man team do the work, but only splitting it two ways.

"I'm a realist," Arthur corrected. It was a long standing argument.

He turned about, giving their workspace one final sweep. Dom had set Eames to wiping down all the surfaces to clear them of fingerprints. He was finishing up with their long conference table now – bending over it to reach the far edge, the thick cords of muscle bunching under the shirt Arthur had bought him.

Arthur glanced away, back to Dom who was watching him with a knowing glint in his eye. "How will you be getting him out of the country?" Arthur asked, to cover up his embarrassment. The movement of slaves was closely monitored by most governments to discourage black-market dealing, though it went on anyway. Eames had certainly not been purchased through normal means.

"I can get the papers I need," Dom said, glancing away.

Arthur hesitated, wondering if he should press for more of an explanation, but then decided against it. He was loyal to Dom, had followed him across the world out of love and friendship, but he wasn't his keeper.

"Call me when you reach the rendezvous," he said, picking up the PASIV. It was only prudent to take separate flights out, even after a successful extraction. Arthur always went first, as bait, and took a few extra days to lose any potential tails. He and Dom would meet up again a week later at a prearranged safe-house.

"Eames," Arthur called.

The slave had his back to them as he scrubbed the table, and Arthur saw him visibly flinch at the sound of his name, as if expecting a whip-crack to follow. But he mastered himself at once and paused to turn and regard Arthur with an incurious gaze.

"You did well today." Arthur wasn't given to compliments, generally, and the words felt stiff even as he said them. He covered it up quickly, adding, "See you in Denmark."

Eames nodded once, hesitantly. There was none of the pride and dry wit he had shown just an hour below down in the dream. He resumed scrubbing as Arthur walked away.

 

*****

 

After Denmark there was Hong Kong, and after that were two jobs back-to-back in Cape Town.

Eames slowly seemed to settle in as he got used to the routine of long days planning, researching, and dreaming. Arthur began to show him the ropes on how he researched marks, and found that Eames knew his way around a computer... although he had a irritating tendency to henpeck the keyboard.

Still, if Arthur were the type of man to believe in luck, he would have started to wonder if there wasn't something about Eames that brought along good fortune. They had completed five jobs – all basic, easy extractions for the most part, but even then... – almost without a hitch.

And occasionally Arthur would see glimmers of the man in the dream showing himself up above.

"It can't be done," Arthur said flatly, during their latest session to outline the initial plan for the job. He made a point of taking his pen out of his mouth as he spoke. He'd had a habit of chewing on them while in high school – a habit stopped only when one had broken open in his mouth. He had stopped for years, but being Dom's point man on a grinding series of jobs was stressful at best.

Case in point.

"We set the dream up like a news studio," Dom said, again, as if Arthur hadn't heard him the first time. As if repetition would suddenly make the whole convoluted scheme feasible. "I'll be the interviewer, Eames can forge his assistant, and you take point to cover if the projections get nasty—"

"Which I can guarantee that they will," Arthur countered. "All the reports suggest the mark is militarized. If you ambush him with aggressive journalism, the threat of TV cameras won't stop his subconscious from attacking."

There was the sound of paper being torn. Arthur glanced up in surprise to see Eames slide a slip of paper from his own notebook he'd taken to use for forging notes over to Dom. Arthur had nearly forgotten the slave was sharing the table at all, being so silent and oddly unobtrusive.

Dom's eyebrows rose as he read the paper, then passed it over to Arthur to read. Eames' handwriting, in neat block letters said: _"Feed him the idea of guilt."_

"Go on," Dom said, sliding the paper back to Eames. There was no expression on his face other than polite interest, but Eames' eyes flicked to both of them as if judging their moods – looking for a hint that he was overstepping his bounds, Arthur thought – before he put pen to paper again.

_"Use the interview to lay the idea of dire consequences if PatCom Inc goes forward with merger. Ask him questions about how the company went under."_

Arthur read through the note carefully twice over when it was passed to him. "That could work," he said, slowly. "His subconscious militarization may not kick in if the pressure were internal, instead of external."

"He would be primed to ask himself how it all went wrong," Dom said, "And we can extract from there. We'll set it for, say, six months in the future..." He trailed off, lost in his own thoughts and jotting down notes on a thick legal pad.

Arthur glanced over at Eames. The slave had a small, pleased smirk on his face. And there was something _real_ about it – something fragile yet authentic in a way that told Arthur this was part of the man Eames was... or had been, once.

 _Who are you?_ he thought, but of course there couldn't be an answer, even if he had asked it aloud.

 

****

 

Arthur found himself standing in what looked like a bland office building. Standard corporate cubicals were set up along one corner, an actual water-cooler set up in another, and a few fake houseplants made a dismal attempt at freshening up the place. Despite this, the air smelled a touch too sanitized, with an overlay of overcooked coffee.

"It's almost enough to make me sorry I missed out on the corporate grind," said a voice behind him.

Arthur turned, caught sight of a hideous burnt orange shirt, light colored slacks matched with, God, dark wingtip shoes… and remembered that he was in a dream. Or rather, Dom’s final version of the news studio maze. He and Eames had come in together at one of the back rooms.

Eames grinned at Arthur’s expression. “Do you like what you see?”

“Tell me that’s not what you plan on wearing when you interview the mark tomorrow.”

Eames put on a wounded look that Arthur didn’t believe for a minute. “Everything will up to your exacting standards, I assure you.”

Which meant he had dreamed himself into that monstrosity on purpose. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Arthur was once again grateful that Dom had at least taken to purchasing Eames’ wardrobe up above. There was no telling what he would unleash on the world if he were a free man.

He turned his mind back to the task at hand. Because of the mark’s militarization, the maze was more or less a warren of interlinking offices which eventually led to the newsroom where the trap was set. This was the final test-run: he and Eames had two hours of dream time to memorize the maze, work out the last of the bugs, and meet with Dom at the end. It was a full schedule, but nothing they weren't capable of.

“Let’s move,” Arthur said.

They decided to take the elevator between the forth and seventh floors. Arthur would be playing their mark’s assistant, leading him onward, and the elevator provided a quick shortcut past loops and back-ends that would hopefully help to stall a mob of projections.

His mind was focused on the maze and the projections – office workers mostly, intermixed with a few alert security guards – were behaving themselves, so Arthur hardly noticed when one peeled away from the general crowd and stepped with him and Eames into the elevator.

The woman wore a black party dress, her hair done up in elegant curls, her shoes were strappy heels. Something about that pinged in Arthur’s mind, but any connection he may have made was overshadowed by pure shock. He stared at her, his heart lurching into his throat.

“Mal?”

She smiled back at him: an achingly familiar expression, but her dark eyes were hard as flint. Arthur still drunk the sight of her in – he missed her so dearly that it physically hurt sometimes. She and Dom had taken him in when he was at his lowest point after the military. They'd treated him like the family he'd never had, and there were days, especially now with Dom so odd and remote, that he'd give almost anything just speak with her again...

A strong grip closed over Arthur's shoulder: it was Eames. "Take care," he said, lowly. "She's the one who—"

"Remember your place, slave!" Mal's voice was like a whip-crack, and Eames' mouth immediately snapped his mouth shut over his next words.

It was if a spell had been broken: Arthur had never remembered Mal being curt with Lucy, she and Dom's house-slave. Mal wasn't the type to yell. She never needed too.

Reaching around Eames, Arthur pressed the stop button on the elevator. "What are you doing here, Mal?"

A secret smile curved her lips. "I'm waiting, of course." She took a step forward to Eames and reached up to run her fingers almost proprietarily through his hair. Then she touched a finger under his jaw and turned his face left and right to examine him.

Eames allowed her to do it. His back was taunt with tension, but his gaze was trained obediently downwards.

Arthur suppressed an irrational flash of annoyance on his behalf. It wasn't _right_ to see him act this way. Not down in the dream.

"You poor soul," Mal murmured, considering Eames with dark eyes. "You're like me, no? This is the reality for you. Up there. That is the dream." She leaned forward and whispered something in his ear that Arthur couldn't catch. Eames stiffened, his eyes wide. And with a sudden, violent movement, he shoved her away.

Mal hit the opposite wall, laughing, her hair falling into her face.

"He will! He will!" she cackled, a high almost manic sound that sent a chill down Arthur's spine. "You don't think he's already got his claws into you? You don't think—"

"That's enough," Arthur said, stepping between them. He didn't know exactly what was going on, but this _wasn't_ the Mal he knew. She was dead. It was a projection, the same as any other. "Why are you here?" he asked it, and only received the same secretive smile in reply.

Annoyed, Arthur turned to restart the elevator. He and Eames could get off on the next floor. They had wasted enough time—

"I'm sorry, _mon cher_ ," he heard Mal say. Eames yelled out something, wordless, and before Arthur could react, he heard the sound of impossibly loud gunfire.

 

****

 

Arthur woke with a start back in the warehouse. He found his hand reaching for his pocket almost without thinking about it – seeing Mal again, so much like herself and not, was unsettling enough. His loaded die clattered across the floor, landing three up just as it ought.

He gripped it in his palm and glanced back to see that Dom was still asleep, being both the dreamer and the subject for the final run-through. Eames was awake, however: sitting up and running a hand almost tentatively over his shaved scalp. Arthur wondered how exactly he had been kicked out of that dream: judging by his expression, it hadn't been pleasant.

Eames caught his eye. "Th—" he started, but a series of red lights snapped on at once around his collar. His entire body stiffened, a hand flying to his throat as his eyes squeezed shut against the pain. After the long count of three, the lights blinked off, the correction made, and Eames let out a long, controlled exhale of relief.

Arthur busied himself with removing the IV while Eames collected himself, feeling oddly uncomfortable. He wasn't sure why... he had seen those collars work before. Had even seen a master actively punishing a disrespectful slave, though he'd been young and it had given him nightmares for months after.

He looked up in time to see Eames reach for a pen and a piece of paper on a desk nearby.

"It's fine," Arthur said to spare him the trouble. "That wasn't the first time you've seen her, was it?"

Looking both nervous and relieved, Eames nodded. He glanced meaningfully at Dom who was still sleeping, unawares, and Arthur was hit with a flash of insight that made him feel slightly sick.

"She was the projection who stabbed me from behind during the Wilcox job?"

Another nod.

Arthur didn't want to ask, but he needed to know. "You've seen her other times?"

Now Eames looked distinctly uneasy. He glanced again at Dom, and Arthur wondered if he shouldn't just take them both down again, rejoin the dream. It would be easier to get this out of the confident forger down below, rather than the broken slave up top.

Arthur wondered when exactly he started to consider them as two separate people.

Before Arthur could act, Eames snatched up the paper and in quick scratchy writing, wrote: _I build for them both at night. She's becoming stronger._

Arthur sat back in his lawn chair, pole-axed. "For them _both_?" he repeated, hoarsely.

Eames only shook his head, and it was like watching shutters close behind his eyes. He looked down and away, one hand still tentatively touching the collar around his neck, refusing to elaborate.

Mal's words to Eames came back to Arthur once more. _"You're like me, no? This is the reality for you. Up there. That is the dream."_

And for the first time since he received that call at midnight from a sobbing Dom telling him that Mal was dead... Arthur wondered if he shouldn't just walk away.

Instead, he tucked Eames' incriminating note into his pocket, walked over to Dom, and unceremoniously tipped him out of his chair.

Dom's limbs flailed out in all directions and he hit the ground with a pained grunt. "Wha—What?" He looked around, obviously confused at the ungentle kick and Arthur allowed him time to spin his totem. Once it fell over, Dom held out his arm for Eames to assist with the needle. "What happened?" he asked Arthur.

"Mal shot us out of the dream," Arthur said, with deliberate bluntness, and carefully watched Dom's reaction.

Sure enough, Dom went pale. Then he nodded, his lips pressed tightly together. He didn't look surprised.

"This isn't the first time. Remember what happened during the prep for the Wilcox job? I was stabbed from behind without warning." Arthur pressed, though he made sure not to mention Eames. Arthur could handle Dom's displeasure, but he wasn't sure if the slave could. "What the hell is going on, Dom? Why are your projections turning against me?"

Dom ran a hand through his hair. "It's not my projections," he said. "It's just Mal."

"That doesn't make sense. She's a projection, a manifestation of your subconscious."

He turned haunted eyes towards Arthur. "She's different. I... I don't know how or why, yet, but I'm working on keeping it under control."

"Really," Arthur said, flatly.

"It won't happen again – look, in both instances I was both the dreamer and the subject. It gave her too much control of the dream."

A chill went up Arthur's spine. "You're talking as if she's real."

"I know she's not real," Dom snapped, his anger and grief sharp. "My wife is dead." He turned away, looking back towards the PASIV device. Considering. "From now on, we'll use Eames as the subject when we're testing levels."

"You don't think that your slave's subconscious might have it out for you?"

Dom quirked a smile. "I can handle myself." And the unspoken criticism, that Arthur _couldn't_ , set his teeth on edge. He looked away towards Eames who had been quietly witnessing the entire exchange. There was something in his eyes – there and gone again, before Arthur could identify it.

It looked like relief – like triumph.

"Eames," Dom said eyes narrowing, and Arthur realized he must have seen the same thing. "Step outside and wait for me by the car."

The slave hesitated very briefly, eyes flicking to each them in turn, before he nodded and walked out. Dom waited until the count of ten after the sound of the door closing before he looked to Arthur.

"What did he tell you?"

Arthur didn't answer for a long moment. He crossed his arms, considering. He could show Dom the note Eames had written, but that felt uncomfortably close to a violation of trust. So he went another route. "Mal's projection spoke to us, down there," he said, and watched Dom wince before he went on. "She said Eames has trouble telling the difference between dream and reality. Is that what you believe?"

"I think he was physically abused and mentally raped for ten years before I bought him," Dom said. "It's entirely possible he's built a reality for himself down there. I also believe," he said, forestalling Arthur before he could speak, "that he's extremely intelligent and more than capable of being manipulative."

Arthur's scowled. "What are you implying?"

Dom met his gaze square on. "I know you like to treat him as your coworker, Arthur, but he's not. He's also a very dangerous man who's learned to play nice so he won't be punished." He let out a long breath, looking sad. "I'm telling you to be careful."

 

*****

  
The extraction was a disaster.

It started off well – perhaps a little _too_ well, as those things went. Arthur, playing the mark's assistant, effortlessly guided the mark through the maze and to the news room where the "interview" was to be conducted. There was a minute where Arthur lost track of the man. He found him shortly – staring blankly down a hallway as if looking after someone who had just run off.

Arthur gamely steered him back on course towards Dom who was playing the interviewer.

However, Dom had only gotten one question in before the mark simply smiled, said, "No, I don't think it matters. This is _my_ dream," before he pulled a gun out of nowhere and shot Dom in the face.

The dream fell apart around their ears. Only Arthur's insistence that mark's always be kept under with more sedative than strictly necessary kept the man from leaping up and trying to shoot them topside, as well.

Something or _someone_ had tipped the mark off, and as Arthur split from Dom and Eames as per usual and ran for his life... he tried to imagine it could have been anyone but Mal.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost feel like I should apologize for this extra long chapter. ;D Enjoy!

"May I ask a question?" Eames prompted.  
  
Arthur's lips quirked into a smile. "You just did."  
  
"Oh ho, so he does have a sense of humor buried deep within." Eames nudged him almost playfully with a shoulder, causing Arthur to sidestep nearly into the gently lapping surf.   
  
They were both barefoot and walking side by side down a long stretch of beach. The sun was sinking down to the west-- a long trail of footprints stretched behind them, their shadows long and thin ahead of them. It would almost be romantic, except that Arthur had asked Eames to build him something large and simple. Both were harder than it seemed: the mind instinctively wanted to fill a dream with details. It was always creating, always thinking. Forcing one's imagination to keep to large objects and negative space required a good amount of self discipline.  
  
It was a good mental exercise, and if Eames was to stay on, it was only prudent that Arthur find out his limits.   
  
He had other reasons, as well.  
  
It had taken over two weeks for Dom to meet up with Arthur at their safe-house in Rio. He practically staggered into their newest warehouse with Eames in tow, just as Arthur had about decided to scrap the job and go _looking_.   
  
Dom had been infuriatingly light on what had held them up, and of course Eames couldn't break his silence.   
  
"It's only that it seems a bit odd to me," Eames continued. "I think I understand what has brought Cobb to illegal extraction – the warrants for his arrest and whatnot, but you, darling, I don't understand."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
Eames shrugged. A warm sea-breeze lifted the tails of his linen shirt and sent it flapping behind him. "You do realize what would happen if you were ever convicted of the things you do?" He tapped his own throat meaningfully. "You could be collared for years. That can't possibly appeal."  
  
Arthur cast him a sidelong look, but Eames only appeared thoughtful as he strode long the beach, his shirt unbuttoned and his neck free of a collar. "It's a risk," he admitted. "But considering I've extracted against government officials, I would probably be extradited back to the US, convicted of treason and then hanged." He smirked. "They still have capital punishment in the States."  
  
"That's humane of them."  
  
There was an edge to Eames' voice he hadn't heard before. Arthur glanced over to see the other man looking pointedly away towards the lapping waves. Overhead, a seagull cried out – a high, oddly lonely sound.  
  
"Seagull," Arthur said. Eames nodded, for once without commenting, and the projection of the bird vanished. The whole point of the exercise was to suppress as much as possible from the dreamscape.   
  
He and Eames continued their walk down the beach, but the mood was different between them now – Eames was one for constant conversation down in the dream. Today, he seemed to be oddly pensive. As if trying to dream of nothing had somehow pushed him into a darker place.   
  
With an inward grimace, Arthur decided to just come right out and ask. "What delayed you and Dom for so long?"  
  
"Why don't you ask him?"  
  
"I did. Now I'm asking you."  
  
He half expected Eames to attempt to brush the question off, or make a joke. Instead, the vista of a distant city shimmered far into the horizon before fading out again as Eames struggled to keep his concentration. "Arthur," Eames let out a long sigh. "I must keep my master's secrets. That's part of the reason for the bloody collar."   
  
There was a park bench up ahead, just above the waterline when there should be nothing but water and sand in the dream. Arthur didn't correct him on it, only remained standing and crossing his arms while Eames sat down.   
  
"That's bullshit, Eames. You've spoken to me before about him and Mal up above." Or at least, he had written it down.  
  
"Because it's a fine line you ask me to walk," Eames replied with uncharacteristic shortness. Then he sighed again, reaching up to scrub at his face. Projections appeared and disappeared like mirages on the beach, and Arthur started to wonder if he _was_ asking too much before Eames spoke again, "We stopped in at a dream parlor in Mar del Plata – it's a lovely city. Have you ever been?"  
  
"Once," Arthur said. He uncrossed his arms and joined Eames on the bench, intending to wait him out.   
  
"I believe," said Eames, after another hesitation, "he intended to resolve the issue with his wife. You had the PASIV, you see, and he needed a way to go down to see her. It was meant to be only a day's delay." A shadow passed over his face, his lips downturned. "It ended up being nearly a week."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
He shrugged. "I wasn't down there with him, was I? Part of his payment was that he rent me to the owner of the parlor for the duration." He must have caught the startled dismay on Arthur's face because he nodded. "Yes, well, not as a forger. Even he knows I'm too valuable of property to advertise and then let out of sight for hours on end. I cleaned and did other manual labor, darling. You can get your head out of the gutter."  
  
But there was still something in Eames' tone – a bitter note that didn't belong in his otherwise blithe phrasing – that made Arthur suspect that Eames' work had not been pleasant.   
  
That realization disquieted Arthur more than he thought it would. Eames was Dom's property, but he shouldn't have been rented out to help pay a debt. He was worth more than that.   
  
Or perhaps, as Dom had implied during the last job, this was all just a ruse. An attempt to manipulate Arthur to feel pity for him. He glanced at Eames out of the corner of his eye and let himself wonder how much he knew -- _really_ knew about him.   
  
Arthur always made a point of researching those he worked with. It was a matter of safety to do a comprehensive background on someone before opening his mind to them. It had been one of the many reasons why he had thought it was a bad idea to purchase a slave. Just about anything – anger, resentment, some sort of psychopathic tendencies – could be brewing just under the surface, held in check by the Quietus collar.   
  
What purpose would Eames have in lying about this, though? An attempt to drive a wedge between Arthur and Dom. To what purpose?  
  
It didn't make sense. Unless, Arthur thought with a mental frown, Eames had another goal in mind.  
  
"So why are you telling me this?" Arthur asked, because he preferred to be up front in things. "You said yourself that your job was to keep Dom's secrets."  
  
Eames' mouth ticked up and his glance towards Arthur was mildly approving. "Because you asked. And, don't take this the wrong way, but my master does love taking his risks. You, on the other hand, have a way of injecting logic into the situation. He listens to you."  
  
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Don't tell me you're worried about Dom."  
  
Now Eames did looked surprised – and very pleased, as if Arthur had preformed an amusing trick for him. He shook his head. "He's nearly kind as masters go," he said. "I think, if we had met as equals I might have liked him, but as it is... No. You're right. I'm not telling you this out of some misplaced loyalty." He paused for a moment, his gaze out to the middle distance, again to the oncoming waves. But the sky overhead had become dark with clouds. "I'm tied to him, for better or worse. If he were to be arrested, I would once again become property of the state and put to general auction. It's not the place to be, Arthur. Anything is better than that."  
  
A roll of thunder put emphasis to those words. Eames was losing his grip upon the dream and his mind was naturally filling in with detail again. Still, he had managed close to forty-five minutes. That was a long way from Arthur's personal best, but he'd had much more practice.  
  
That was the other reason Arthur had chosen to question Eames down here – he knew from experience it was much harder to be deceptive when you were actively working to suppress your subconscious.  
  
 "We have a few more minutes before our time is up," Arthur said pulling out his dice for Eames to look at even as forked lightening lit the sky. "Let's talk about the concept of a totem."  
  
  
                

* * *

  
  
"Eames needs a totem," Arthur said.  
  
Dom looked up from his sketchbook where he was currently hashing out new ideas for the dream. From the looks of the drawings, he was planning on building the dream loosely on the mark's childhood home. "He wasn't able to suppress his projections?" he asked, sounding surprised.  
  
"He had a good start, once he got the idea," Arthur answered, carefully glancing at the slave who was quietly cleaning the PASIV device, flushing out the chemical injectors with saline solution. "But if we're going to use him as the subject in practice runs, I need to be sure he has a firm grasp on what is reality."  
  
"Does it matter? He'll do as I say no matter what."  
  
"It matters," Arthur said.  
  
Dom stared at Arthur for a moment, then shrugged, reached into his pocket and pulled out the small remote that controlled Eames' Quietus collar. He pushed it across the table to Arthur. "Okay. So take him out and get him one."  
  
Arthur stared at the thing. "You've sent him out alone before." Dom usually sent Eames out around lunch time to pick up a food order. Slaves were not allowed to handle money by law, so the common practice was to pay over the phone and send Eames to retrieve their meals, allowing Arthur and Dom to work through the lunch hour. House-slaves usually did menial errands such as those, so Eames never drew any undo attention from their competitors or marks.  
  
"He needs someone to show him the ropes, and pay for the totem and I need to work on the preliminaries for the maze," Dom replied. He squinted at Arthur, and Arthur got the impression he was being somehow tested.  
  
"It won't work. It's keyed into your fingerprint, not mine," Arthur said.  
  
Dom shrugged again – it was too casual of a motion, somehow, utterly false – and picked up the remote. He pressed his thumb to the small touch pad, pushed a few buttons on it, before he again slid it across the table. "There. I put it on guest mode for the next three hours."  
  
"Fine," Arthur said, refusing to make an issue of this. He scooped up the remote and shoved it in his pocket, not looking at the host of red and orange buttons along the top – the subtle settings in agony when a master wished to discipline his slave – and snapped to Eames, "Let's go."  
  
Eames rose from his desk and docilely followed Arthur out, keeping a careful step behind him, just as he would with Dom. He wasn't an idiot. He had probably watched the entire exchange and knew who held power over him now.  
  
Arthur's mood darkened further and he hardly waited for Eames to buckle himself into the passenger's seat before punching his rental car into gear. The streets of Rio were clogged and dangerous at best of times, but it at least allowed Arthur to vent his frustration.   
  
It pissed him off that he had to do this. Eames was Dom's property, not his, but it seemed that _Arthur_ was always the one who did the work; the training during practice runs. Arthur the one who had bought Eames' clothing for him – Dom might still have him in sweat pants and flip-flops, otherwise. Not to mention that Eames should have had a totem from the very beginning, not months after the fact.   
  
In some ways, Arthur felt like he was left taking care of a pet, and that only annoyed him further because Eames was a thinking, rational human being. In a perfect world, he should have been able to pick out his own totem on his own time, after work. He would probably already have one by now – something obvious on the outside, but with hidden depths.   
  
Arthur allowed himself to fantasize on that: Eames as he appeared down in the dreams, not the slave. They would have met through a mutual acquaintance, maybe. A talented forger would naturally be interested in working with an extractor of Dom's caliber. He would be ridiculously expensive, and snarky during the job... and would probably drive Arthur half-insane. But he would be competent; he'd be his own man, charming and dangerous, and _free_.  
  
Arthur glanced over at Eames and saw him hunched in the furthest corner of the seat, looking anywhere but at Arthur. Tense, and – no, it wasn't his imagination – he looked pale.   
  
"My driving's not that bad, is it?" Arthur said, breaking the silence.  
  
Eames' eyes flicked to him, then quickly away. Arthur watched him swallow, hard, and rub his palm over the knee of his trousers, leaving behind a smudge of sweat. It almost looked like he was fighting down a panic attack.  
  
"What's wrong?" Arthur asked. Of course he received no answer, but no acknowledgement either. "Eames?"  
  
Eames shook his head, a quick slight movement, and turned away to stare out the window.  
  
With a mental sigh, Arthur banished his brief fantasy. That man existed, literally, only in a dream. The reality was just a muted slave – abused and beaten down.  
  
Abused.  
  
Eames could be upset by any number of things: the small confines of the car, or maybe he had a bad memory of hot, muggy days. It wasn't logical, but Arthur had been inside enough minds to know that these things usually weren't.  
  
Or maybe, Arthur thought, with a sudden chill, it was the fact that Eames had been loaned out – however briefly – to someone else. Arthur had control of his collar, didn't he? He could order Eames to do anything, tell him to get started sucking his cock, and if Eames refused it would only take one press of the button to the remote to the collar to punish him.   
  
And Eames wouldn't be able to tell Dom about it, would he? Not until they were in a dream together, and even then... there would be no recourse. What could Dom do? Being a slave meant having no rights, not even to name their own abusers.  
  
Arthur flipped the turn signal and pulled into a large parking lot. He had driven, more or less by accident, to a higher-end district. One he had been to before. He considered for a moment, then turned the key to shut off the engine. Whatever issues Eames had, being in an confined space probably wasn't helping.  
  
"Since we're out here," he said, keeping his voice neutral, "We may as well get you something decent to wear for once." Again, there was no reaction. "Eames?"  
  
Eames jumped a little at the sound of his name, and the glance he turned to Arthur was filled with wariness. Arthur wanted to snap at him, tell him that he wasn't his damned owner – that more importantly, Eames _knew_ him. But it was seeming more and more likely that this sort of thing had happened before, and that Eames had known his previous – What? Abuser, attacker, _rapist_? – as well.  
  
Anger or pity wouldn't help, though Arthur felt them both. He repeated himself, still keeping his voice calm. "We have a few hours. Do you mind if we stop and get you something new to wear? I know a good place."  
  
Eames blinked, then shook his head: he didn't mind.  
  
"All right," Arthur said, restarting the car and turning back into traffic, this time with a destination in mind. He turned on the radio to fill the tense silence. And for the hundredth time since Dom had purchased Eames, he wondered what the other man had done to deserve being collared.  
  
His hands flexed on the steering wheel as he firmly told himself that it didn't matter.  
  


                

* * *

  
  
The clothing store itself was large, and rather conservative (for Rio) in its styles and designer brands.   
  
Eames seemed to lose some of the air of brittle panic he'd had in the car, though he looked utterly lost when Arthur told him to find something he liked. So Arthur led him to a rack of simple button-up shirts. He knew Eames was at least capable of making decisions for himself – he was probably just unused to it.   
  
After a few unsure starts and stops, Eames picked out something close to a Hawaiian shirt with red and white floral patterning.   
  
"Pick something that will not burn out my retinas," Arthur said, firmly.  
  
Eames in a dream would have smirked at him, a comeback ready on his lips. This Eames hurriedly hung the shirt back upon the rack as if he had badly errored.  
  
Wincing internally, Arthur reminded himself that those were _not_ the same men, and picked the shirt back up. He held it up against Eames – god, this pattern was hideous – to judge the size. It was a little large.  
  
"You've lost weight," Arthur said, realizing it for the first time. The shirt he had purchased for Eames a few months ago had once been tight around the shoulders, but now fit more loosely. The man was still built, with thick arms and sloping muscle over his shoulders and chest, but it wasn't nearly as prominent as it was. He merely had the look of a scary bouncer rather than a living tank.  
  
Eames looked down at himself as if in surprise, and then tapped the inside of his wrist where there were several purple pin-pricks visible.  
  
Arthur nodded. "Yes, you do spend most of your day sleeping now." He briefly entertained the thought of nagging Dom into getting a gym membership for his slave, but that was ridiculous... and besides, Eames didn't look bad as he was.  
  
At least he had a valid excuse not to buy the Hawaiian shirt. Arthur steered Eames toward another rack – this one not as wide in the shoulders, but he thought, after holding one up, the cut would still show off his trim waist.   
  
Arthur picked out several dress shirts he thought would do nicely (and bring out the color of Eames' eyes, but he refused to dwell on that for long) and a tasteful plaid button-up that seemed to be this year's trend.   
  
He managed to keep his comments to himself ("Are you colorblind?") when Eames tentatively brought forward a blue paisley shirt, as if he was trying to emulate wallpaper from the 1960's. Arthur reluctantly added it to the pile.  
  
The store also carried jeans which were a good fit, and several pairs of slacks. Eames cautiously gravitated to a dark wool peacoat with a wide collar. Even though it was summer in this hemisphere, Arthur brought it.  
  
An hour and a half had passed and Eames practically had a new wardrobe. Arthur tried not to feel too smug about his power-shopping abilities.  
  
"Shopping is my one concession to being a stereotype," he found himself admitting as their clothing was rung up and carefully packed by the manager and several bald helper slaves. Eames stood quietly beside him, watching, but with no real expression on his face.   
  
Arthur continued, "Before Mal became sick, she and I could take Paris by storm. It used to drive Dom insane that his children looked like tiny fashion models." His smile slipped as he flashed to unhappier times – Mal's rapid decline from reality, and the crushing shock of her death. "You would have liked her," he said, softly, remembering that Eames only knew her vicious projection. "She had a very kind soul."  
  
The final tally for the designer brands came well over fifteen hundred American dollars. Arthur saw Eames' concerned expression and caught his eye. "Don't worry, this is coming out of Dom's tab, under job expenditures."   
  
Eames let out a startled huff – something very close to a laugh – and Arthur found himself smirking back. Dom wouldn't even notice, as he left accounting up to his point man, but Dom had pissed him off recently with not explaining why he and Eames had been days late, and with insisting Arthur take the remote to Eames' collar.  
  
Arthur arranged for the clothing to be delivered up to his hotel room. He realized, as he climbed back into the car, that the last of his bad mood had washed away. Eames seemed to be more relaxed as well.  
  
There was an antique shop nearby which was as good of a place as any to start looking for a totem.   
  
"It should be something small enough to fit into your pocket," Arthur reminded him, "and have a secret only you should know."  
  
While far from self-assured, Eames at least didn't seem overwhelmed by choice as he walked up and down the narrow, crowded aisles filled with antiques both modern and supposedly from the native population. Looking around, Arthur doubted that half of the items were authentic – the place had the feel of a well-placed tourist trap. The ivory figurines along the far wall were no doubt actually made of bone.  
  
Eames seemed interested in a thumb-sized hobbyhorse, tapping the edge it so that it rocked back and forth several times. Whatever he saw in it, however, wasn't enough and he soon moved on.  
  
The owner of the business spied them, and ignoring the slave, came up to Arthur to ask him what he needed. Arthur pretended, by way of broken Portuguese, that he was interested in some furniture for his house. The owner was just showing off a gaudy fainting couch when Eames came up to stand passively next to Arthur.  
  
"Find anything?" Arthur asked.  
  
Eames shook his head.  
  
Arthur nodded, thanked the mystified owner, and they made their way out. They walked a few blocks, coming across a seedier but far more interesting district with open air stalls and what looked like some street gambling.  
  
Despite himself, Arthur stopped to watch a few men who were clustered in a shady corner, three dice clattering between them and paper money quickly exchanging hands. He was trying to figure out what exactly their game was when the sound of impact and cursing in Portuguese made him whip his head around.  
  
It looked like a scruffy looking man had run into Eames with enough impact to send both men staggering. It was the scruffy man who was cursing, while Eames held up a hand and tried to step back.  
  
"Meu perdão," Arthur said, coming between them, though his free hand drifted down under his jacket where he concealed a knife.  
  
Luckily, the scruffy man did not press the issue, only flipped them off and went back on his way.  
  
"Come on," Arthur said, leading Eames down the other direction. He glanced down the street for more inspiration. It looked to be full of vendors selling food from carts, clothing stores, and sit-down restaurants. He supposed he could go back to the car and travel to another district, but the sun was starting to sink in the evening sky.  
  
"Where else?" he started to ask, then stopped at the odd, almost-smile on the slave's face.   
  
At Arthur's raised eyebrow, Eames reached his hand into his pocket and withdrew what looked to be a scuffed up poker-chip. Arthur's mind blanked until he looked back over his shoulder towards the direction where the scruffy man had gone.  
  
"He didn't just happen run into you, did he?" Arthur asked, turning back to Eames, his voice flat. "You pick-pocketed it."  
  
The almost-smile slipped from Eames' face. He dropped his gaze away, and nodded once, swallowing.  
  
"Let me see it," Arthur said.  
  
Eames obediently extended the chip out to him and Arthur smirked as he pulled his own hand away. "Rule number one: never allow anyone to touch your totem."  
  
Eames stared at him for a blank second, and then he smiled full on: a shy, fragile thing, before he tucked his totem back into his pocket.   
  
A flush of heat curled in Arthur's belly, followed immediately by a cold chill.   
  
_What the hell are you doing, Arthur?_ he thought, and covered the moment by clearing his throat into his hand. "Let's go. Dom will be expecting us any time now."

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware that Mythbusters proved you can't start a fire by shooting a puddle of gasoline, but I'm going to have to ask you to roll with it. ;D

Arthur was the first to start coughing – one of those miserable high summer flus that seemed to work backwards, starting with a racking cough before moving up to the sinuses and ending with a sore throat.  
  
It wasn't before Dom caught the bug, then finally Eames. Soon the small second story office space they'd rented for the job was made miserable with trash bins full of Kleenex, liberal use of cold medicine, and much manly sniffling.  
  
Eames had the worst of the first stage as occasionally his Quietus collar would engage during a run of hard coughing.  
  
"Can you turn it down so it's not so sensitive?" Arthur demanded as he heard Eames' coughing from across the room halt abruptly, to be replaced by a choked off gasp of pain.  
  
"No," Dom replied, but looking like he felt bad about it. "It's automatic, I only have control over the manual discipline settings." Then he honked into a handful of tissues.  
  
Arthur scowled and went over the PASIV to run a basic diagnostic. They were running low on somnacin, and by some reports their usual chemist, a woman named Kara, had been recently busted for drug running in her home country of Ireland. They'd have to get someone else soon.  
  
"You could always bring me chicken soup, if you feel badly about infecting me," Eames suggested, later, as he and Arthur delved into a dream. It wasn't strictly necessary, but no over the counter cure seemed to assuage Arthur's sore throat; he'd gotten little sleep last night, and it was always a good idea to allow Eames to work out the kinks of his forge while under.  
  
He had allowed Eames to build the dream this time, and for some reason known only to him, they were beside a horse-racing track – Arthur clutching ticket stubs in his hand while a pack of thoroughbreds thundered down the home stretch.  
  
Arthur shot Eames an annoyed look. "Chicken soup? Do I look like your mother?"  
  
Eames grinned. "She was a brunette."  
  
The finishing bell rang and Arthur checked his tickets as the announcer rattled off the standings, for some reason in a thick cockney accent. He didn't have a winner.  
  
"You're ridiculous," Arthur said. "And it was Dom who probably infected you."  
  
Eames pulled a ridiculous face. "There's no danger of that, darling. I still catch him crying at night over his wife."  
  
Arthur winced, both at Eames' implication and the fact that Dom was still grieving so. "How is he?"  
  
"Better, I believe," Eames replied after a long moment, sobering. "He hasn't asked me to build for them at night for some time, and I'm certain you've noticed we haven't been recently stabbed or shot out of our practice runs."  
  
It was true. Dom had been careful to use Eames as the subject when all three shared a dream, and Mal had been nowhere to be seen.  
  
Another string of high spirited horses were starting at the gate. It would have been a prime opportunity to ask Eames to show him his newest forge of the mark's long lost sister, but even down in the dream, his throat throbbed with heat. Arthur indulged in a lemon icy while Eames went on about the standings of the horses as if they mattered, and occasionally coughed into a checkered handkerchief.  
  
Perhaps, he thought as the sun started to sink along the horizon and the overhead announcer called the last race at the gate, today should be counted as a sick day.  
  
When they woke, Arthur didn't rise immediately to his feet, but lay on the lawn chair feeling rested and... oddly at peace. His throat felt a little better, too.  
  
"How'd it go?" Dom asked from his workstation.  
  
Arthur glanced over and caught Eames' eye. He hadn't risen from his chair either, but lay back, blinking sleepily up at the ceiling. Some dreams always hit harder than others, and it had been a long time since Arthur had used the PASIV purely for recreational use. He had forgotten how it could be.  
  
"It went well," Arthur said. "Eames has got the basics of the forgery down." Which was not a complete lie: he just didn't need a dream to confirm it.  
  
Dom nodded, half listening. "I was able find a new chemist while you were down. Marko Alberts."  
  
Reluctantly, Arthur sat up and unhooked himself. The peace of the dream still clung to him and he struggled for a moment to place the name. Then it hit him. "He was a friend of Mal's, wasn't he?"  
  
"He's good," Dom confirmed. "He prefers to customize the somnacin himself. He'll be here in a few days."  
  


* * *

In fact it was nearly a week until Alberts showed. By that time, the somnacin had run dry and Dom was looking a little crazed in the eye. Arthur had gone through withdrawal before, though it was less of a chemical drying out than it was the mind reacting to not being able to enter REM sleep at night – unpleasant, but the worst of the effects took weeks to show.

Arthur tried to ignore the fact that his friend was snappy and irritable after mere forty-eight hours. How much dreaming did he do on his own?

Alberts himself was a scrawny beanpole of a man with a long neck, a beaky nose, and a chain smoking habit. He did seem dedicated to the job, and spent the first half of the day taking a sample of everyone's blood, weights, and ordering Eames to set up his home-made lab up to exacting standards. He promised to have preliminary samples by the end of the day.

Arthur was hours deep into surveillance footage of the mark when it happened; the murmurings of the team at work changed and a sixth sense caused Arthur to look up in time to see the exchange.

There was little room to be had in the cramped office-space. As a result, Alberts had various vials and beakers spread out over the desk Eames usually used. Eames reached for his notebook of forgery notes, and in doing so one of his hands brushed a vial filled with amber liquid that tipped dangerously to one side. Deftly, Eames caught and righted it before a drop was spilled.

Alberts rose from his stool to glance at the near mishap. And, with an almost casual motion, backhanded Eames across the face.

Eames staggered, surprise more than pain registering on his face. Arthur didn't care. He was up on his feet, mouth open and ready to – he didn't know what, but it wasn't going to bode well for Alberts – but to his surprise, Dom got there first.

Stepping between them, Dom grabbed Alberts wrist in a painful grip. "That's not how we do things here," he said, firmly.

"The big oaf almost knocked it over!" Alberts protested. "Hours of work gone, just like that!"

Dom released his grip, but his eyes were steely as he said, "Eames is _my_ slave. If you have a problem with him, bring it to me to deal with."

Alberts spat something in French – it sounded like a curse – but then took himself out, presumably to smoke a cigarette or three. Dom waited until the door closed before he turned to Eames who had taken himself off to the side, staring down at the ground. "Are you hurt?"

Eames shook his head. The side of his face was bright red where he had been struck, but a deeper flush was creeping up his neck. He looked embarrassed, or angry. Probably both.

"Good," Dom said, glancing again at the closed door. He leaned closer, but Arthur still caught the words. "If anything like that happens again, you have my permission to hit him back."

Eames lifted his head at this, staring in open surprise at his master. When Dom looked at him expectantly, he nodded.

 _There he is_ , Arthur thought, looking at Dom. There was a glimpse of the man he admired – Mal's husband, and his best friend. Not the haunted, risk-taking fugitive he seemed to have become over the last few months.

Arthur spoke up. "We should get another chemist."

Dom looked over at him and frowned. "He'll be worth it if he can provide half of what he promises."

"He's unstable," Arthur said, and, seeing Dom frown at him gestured to Eames' work station. "And messy. He's been here a day and this workstation is already a pigsty." That part didn't bother him so much – he wasn't the OCD robot that rumor painted him to be – but a sinking feeling told him that Dom wouldn't be swayed by poor treatment of a team member (even if he was a slave) alone. Two days dry, and he already needed to dream badly.

"He's all that we've got right now. Without somnacin, we can't work. Just stay out of his way if you can." Dom looked at Eames. "That goes for you, too." Then, before Arthur could reply he walked out, presumably to go unruffle Alberts' feathers.

Suppressing a sigh, Arthur rewound the surveillance footage by five minutes and sat back down while Eames quietly went back to his own work.

Arthur got his private revenge a few days later, after Alberts made a disgusting pass at him after they happened to be working late one night. Perhaps pulling out his Glock 17 was a _touch_ over the top, but Alberts' bug-eyed fear, and the next day, his quick and sudden completion of the somnacin mix, was well worth it.

 

* * *

Seventy-two hours until the job was scheduled to go down, Dom happened to glance out the window overlooking their second story rented office-space, and went very still.

"Arthur," he said, sharply. "Three black vans just pulled into the parking lot."

Arthur snapped his laptop shut and was at his side in an instant. He peeked out the gap between blind and window in time to see several armed men pour out of the first van.

"We've been made," he confirmed, turning from the window. "Eames, pack it up. We're leaving."

By his estimate they had two minutes tops before they were surrounded. He had to get his team out before then. A few choice keystrokes set his hard drive to reformatting. Arthur grabbed his notebook, his two handguns, and an extra clip that would fit them both. Everything else could be safely burned -- it was why he insisted on fake ID's at all times.

He turned to see Eames close the PASIV case. Arthur held out his hand for it, but to his surprise Eames gestured for a handgun in return. The slave's eyes were bright with excitement -- Arthur had seen that same look down in the dream when the projections starting to go sour.

"You can shoot?" Arthur asked.

Eames nodded and gestured again, so Arthur handed him his least favorite gun.

"The back's clear!" Dom called, from his spot near the rear fire escape. He, too, had a gun, but even from across the room Arthur could see how he held it: Awkward and uncertain. Dom was almost James Bond-smooth down in a dream, but it was all bluff. Up above, he was only marginally competent.

"Go," Arthur said, nodding for Dom and Eames to leave. He would hold the building to give them a few extra minutes. If all went well, they'd meet up at a safe-house in Italy.

He saw them make their way out from the corner of his eye. Without further ado, Arthur grabbed a canister of gasoline he kept stored for such an occasion. He had finished dumping out the last of it when the front door flew open.

It was one of those shitty situations where Arthur was caught a step too far from the nearest cover ¬− Dom's oversize metal desk − and the gunmen were too quick off the mark for him to get away unscathed.

Arthur shot the first man, but two more took his place. He saw it in slow motion: the man in front take aim and his fingers tightening on the trigger, and Arthur--

The man jerked, a dark hole appearing in his forehead as if by magic. Arthur had been too focused to even hear the shot. He reacted by instinct, using the vantage of surprise to take out the third man. Then he turned.

Eames stood behind Arthur, his gun trained steadily on the front door, his feet set apart and shoulders level. He had almost perfect shooting posture.

"Why did Dom send you back?" Arthur snapped, annoyed despite the fact that the man had probably just saved him from getting shot. Before Eames could do more than look at him, Arthur shook his head, lowering his gun. It didn't matter. They had to get out of here.

Eames must have felt the same way, for he motioned for Arthur to hurry towards him. As he did, Eames aimed at one of the puddles of gasoline towards the middle of the room and fired. It sparked, and the fire was just starting to catch as they left from the back.

Arthur shot two men stationed at the back alley entrance. He noted Eames kept his position, his trigger discipline, and how he covered Arthur's blind spots as he moved along with him.

He had to have previous military experience of some sort -- no master in his right mind would teach a slave how to do this.

Through many starts and stops, they made their way from the now merrily burning office building by way of ducking in and out of alleys. A large plume of smoke could be seen behind them, and Arthur heard the sound of sirens drawing closer. He smiled tightly to himself: too late. By the time authorities got a handle of it, there would be no evidence left to point in their direction.  If he was lucky, the fire took out a couple of would-be assassins, too.

Three blocks away, Arthur found and broke into a mid-size sedan. He was no good with the newer, more computerized models, but hotwiring a car really hadn't changed since his older brother taught him years ago.

"Did Dom say where he wanted to meet up?" Arthur asked, brushing safety glass off the seat and buckling in. They were to meet up out of country, but if he sent Eames back he might have other plans.

Eames shook his head as he got into the passenger's side. He moved stiffly, causing Arthur to make a quick double-take. It had been the first time he had taken a good look at him and he realized with a start that there was a growing spot of blood staining Eames' long sleeve shirt, just above where bicep met elbow.

"You're hurt? Why didn't you tell--" Arthur bit off the rest of his sentence.

Eames just looked at him in answer and there was gleam in his eye that seemed to say, _I was trying to keep from getting further shot, wasn't I?_

"Shut up," Arthur grumbled, putting the car into drive.

Eames just blinked at him.

* * *

Arthur was able to navigate away from the scene of the crime, and slide back into the flow of traffic without incident. He regretted the fact that he had to destroy his laptop  -- someone had tipped them off, and it would be difficult to pinpoint who, though he would put his money on Alberts the chemist.

Until he found out, he would have to lay low and try to contact Dom. Besides, it would be difficult to cross into another country with a slave in tow without paperwork or the remote control to Eames' collar to prove ownership.

Arthur pulled into a middle-rate hotel across town and ditched the car several blocks away. Eames had put pressure on the wound thanks to a first-aid kit they found in the car and the bleeding seemed to have slowed. He shook his head when Arthur asked if he was dizzy, or if he thought he needed a doctor.

The lady at the hotel front desk took in Eames' blood-streaked arm, his Quietus collar, and gave a very dirty look to Arthur. But she said nothing, and Arthur tipped her well to buy her silence.

It bothered him more than it should that he was seen as an owner.

"Take off your shirt," he said, as soon as he and Eames stepped into their room. He had rented one with two twin beds, but they would rest there only a few hours, get Eames patched up, and then move somewhere else for the night. Until Arthur knew how much danger they were in, it was best to be on the move.

He had help Eames remove his shirt as the arm was apparently bothering him, and some of the blood had began to glue the fabric to the wound. It wasn't as bad as he feared – no more than a deep bullet-burn. He directed Eames to sit on one of the beds, then got to work.

Eames' arm twitched as Arthur washed the wound clear of blood, but made no move to stop him. His guess was that he got grazed by a ricochet, as the bullet burn was at an angle.  Arthur moved behind Eames to sop up the rest of the blood and apply disinfectant. The first aid kit had pads of clean cloth, but no real bandaging. Arthur ended up tearing a thin pillowcase into strips and winding it around Eames's arm to keep pressure on the pad. It would have to do.

"Brace yourself," he said as he tightened the knot.

Eames made no sound, of course, but all the muscles along the length of his back went taunt with pain. Unthinkingly, Arthur placed his hand over the middle of his back, between the shoulder blades. Eames' bare skin was warm under his palm, and Arthur's eyes fell to his collar which sat, silver and ominous, against his neck.

This close, he could see that Eames' skin was darker directly under it – from callus and from years of corrections issued by the collar. It generated specialized pulses which stimulated pain centers in the brain. Whenever Eames was finally released from his bondage, he would still have a darkened marks around his throat as a reminder.

He realized that Eames had gone very still. His face was turned away from Arthur, but from where he sat he saw Eames' eyelashes against his cheeks, his eyes closed. And it was about then that Arthur realized his other hand was still holding Eames' bicep, his thumb running soothing mindless circles over the flesh there.

Was Eames frightened, or interested? Arthur couldn't honestly tell, and as Arthur took in Eames' wide back, and the play of dark tattoos over muscles, he knew that Eames would not stop him if he pushed this. Arthur would make sure Eames enjoyed himself, and certainly he _flirted_ enough in dreamspace so that Arthur thought he probably wouldn't have to work hard to convince him...

... but that was Eames in a dream. This was a slave – Dom's property – who sat before him, very still and possibly frightened.

Arthur let out a long breath and dropped his hands away. "One day, you're going to have to tell me the story behind those tattoos," he said, to cover the moment.

Eames glanced over his shoulder – his grey eyes full of disquiet, and Arthur was the first to glance away, abruptly ashamed of himself.

Once they were safely out of the country, he could go to any gay club and pick up a quick fuck if he wanted. He didn't need—he didn't _want_ it from a slave. Not when he couldn't be sure if it was coerced or not.

Arthur rose from the bed and walked to the bathroom, quietly shutting the door behind himself. He needed a few minutes alone.

              

* * *

A single knock came at the door nearly an hour later. Arthur exchanged a quick glance with Eames – the slave was flipping through news channels, watching for information on the fire while Arthur was scrolling through his contact list on his cell, determining which favor to call in first.

Silently, Arthur pulled out his handgun from his waistband, and, with quick hand signals he'd learned from his time in the service, gestured for Eames to cover him. Eames nodded.

Arthur slid up to the door and peeked out the peephole. Whoever had knocked had covered it.

In one smooth movement, Arthur unlatched the lock and yanked open the door, his gun pointed and ready to shoot.

For a terrifying second, he and Dom stood two feet apart, guns pointed in each other's faces.

Dom squinted at him. "Arthur," he said, lowering his gun. "Glad to see you made it out okay."

Arthur let out a breath and did the same. He stepped aside to let the other man in. "How did you find us?"

Dom dug in his pocket and held out the remote to Eames' collar. "I used the embedded tracking chip." He glanced over at Eames who had stood automatically at his master's presence, took one look at his bandaged arm and nodded back to Arthur. "We got separated finding a way out."

Arthur cut a swift look at Eames. The man had a near perfect poker face, but the way he wouldn't quite meet Arthur's eye told him enough:  Eames had disobeyed Dom, slipped away in the chaos and had come back, _looking_ for Arthur.

Something tightened in Arthur's stomach. He hadn't even thanked Eames for saving his life.

And he wondered if he should have leaned in and kissed Eames when he had the chance, if it was what Eames had wanted but was unable to tell him.

"I was lucky I found him at all after the fire," Arthur said, keeping the lie vague. Eames' eyes flicked to him, and he thought he saw gratitude there. Arthur turned back to Dom. "Did you find out who's behind this?"

"Alberts," Dom said, grimly. "I got the call from a mutual contact, afterwards."

Then Alberts was a dead man. Arthur would make sure of that. He only nodded and said, "We should get out of the county as soon as we can, then regroup."

He tried to ignore the officious way Dom ordered Eames to follow him out of the hotel, afterwards, and how he never even asked about his slave's injury.


	7. Chapter 7

Arthur didn't meet up with Dom and Eames again for nearly a month – not until he could be sure that the tail he'd picked up had been shaken off, and not until Dom had secured another job.

He hated to admit it, but they were developing a reputation in the business as a team that would take jobs no one else would touch. It attracted some clients – the underhanded kind – and in Arthur's opinion, scared away the types of jobs they should be putting their talents to.

Case in point, the current rush job Dom had signed them up for, without consulting Arthur first. He'd arrived in Italy two days ago only to be told that their client needed the extraction done within forty-eight hours or the deal was off.

That gave Arthur time to do exactly shit. They were forced to improvise, with Dom more or less throwing together a hackneyed dream version of the mark's corporate office building.

The tight timeline and lack of intel meant they had no one for Eames to forge. Arthur made the call to keep him up top for this one, to watch their bodies while he and Dom worked the extraction.

Arthur checked his watch. An hour had passed in the dream, which left them three to go. He and Dom were to meet in a nearby copy-room to reconvene and plan the next steps.

He was a few minutes early, but that would only give him time to plan. Arthur glanced around to make sure he wasn't being observed by the mark's casual projections, then opened the copy room door.

Mal sat perched on the large copy machine. She still wore that same elegant black dress she'd died in, and gave him a soft, sad smile. "Am I early?" she asked, when he froze at the door. "Dom should be here soon, no?"

Arthur didn't allow himself to think about it. He shot her three times – a triangle around the heart.

Turning away, he nearly ran into Dom who was hurrying down the hallway in his direction. Dom slowed as he saw Arthur's gun out, and passed silently by him to glance into the copy room. The color drained from his face as he saw Mal's body, now bleeding out on the floor, and for an insane moment Arthur thought Dom was going to shoot _him_ too.

"I thought she wouldn't be showing up again. You said you'd taken care of this, " Arthur said.

Dom's eyes were hard. "I did."

"Then why is she here?" he demanded, exasperated.

"It doesn't matter. It looks like you took care of it." Dom clapped Arthur upon the shoulder.

His hand came down a touch too hard to be friendly, and Arthur wanted to snap at him. _I didn't want to shoot her, you asshole. I loved her too!_

But the clock was counting down and they had a job to do.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Of course the next client had to reside in India during the monsoon season. At least they had a twenty day window to work the mark, this time.

Arthur had been up late last night working his contacts to find another decent chemist, and to his embarrassment had actually overslept his alarm. It was nearly 10 AM – though Dom wasn't likely to complain about his lateness, it was Arthur's turn to watch the PASIV device.

In the short amount of time it took for Arthur to sprint from the cab to the warehouse door with the PASIV in hand, he was nearly soaked through. Swearing, he walked straight to his desk, unbuttoned his soggy jacket, and laid it over his chair. The humidity fogged the windows of their warehouse, and he didn't have much hope for it to dry.

The next job, he promised himself as he unpacked the PASIV, will be done in the deepest, darkest part of Siberia. Some place in the tundra, cold and dry.

It was only then that he looked about and realized Dom was the only other one in the room; sitting at his desk and working intently over a blueprint for the next dream.

"It's a little early to send Eames out for lunch," Arthur said, annoyed. Dom had recently gotten into the irritating habit of ordering food on Arthur's behalf without consulting him.

Dom's pen stilled over the blueprint. His lips pressed into a thin line. "I found something interesting in here this morning before work." He pointed to a notebook  – a moleskin Arthur had purchased for Eames to take notes in several months ago.

Arthur's eyebrows rose as he came over to take a closer look, and Dom flipped it to a dog-eared page in the middle. Dom's bold handwriting was scrawled across the page – paragraphs detailing the mark's habits. They were forgery notes. But...

Dom flipped the page and Arthur felt a swooping sensation in the pit of his stomach. His fingers were cold as he snatched the notebook up for closer scrutiny. It was _his_ handwriting. No... it wasn't exactly right. The E's looked foreign to him, nestled along with his own pin-neat letters. The rest was close. Very close.

The man was a brilliant forger in dreams. It just never occurred to Arthur that he was also so in the original sense of the word. He had been an idiot – hadn't Eames pick pocketed someone right in front of him? Hadn't he _known_ that Eames was a thief?

"Do you think he was practicing to forge his own release papers?" It was the only thing Arthur could immediately think of that would be of any value to Eames. It wasn't as if he and Dom carried around checkbooks, and slaves were not allowed to handle money.

Eames could theoretically copy the papers in Dom's hand – but why would he need Arthur's as well? Maybe to plant evidence, a paper trail for incrimination?

Arthur flipped rapidly through the rest of the notebook, but nothing else stood out on a quick scan, other than a few traces where several pages had been ripped out. He firmly swallowed down a hot acid feeling of betrayal. There would be time for that later. Now, they had to do damage control. This was what he was good at – compartmentalizing, doing what was needed, even if it was unpleasant.

_And wouldn't I do the same?_   Asked a very small voice in his thoughts. _Take any chance at freedom?_

"We should drop the job," Arthur said, firmly pushing _that_ thought away, too. "We don't know what he's managed to compromise." Dom had been sending Eames out on simple errands to pick up food and supplies during jobs for months now. He could have been in contact with the client, or their competitors.

Arthur strode to his desk, grabbing up his files into a neat stack. He could burn those before they left.  His hands were trembling, and he told himself it was from shock. "Where did you sell him?" he asked, although he wasn't sure he wanted to know.  

Dom didn't answer – he hadn't spoken this entire time, Arthur realized – and looked up to see his friend still sitting at the desk, but staring out the window, his face drawn and unhappy.

"Dom," Arthur said, a chill going down his spine. "You got rid of him, right?"

"He's back at my hotel room – he won't be going anywhere." Dom sighed, suddenly looking years older as he smoothed his palms over his hair. "In fact, I've been expecting something like this to happen for a little while now."

Arthur's jaw worked as he literally had to bite back the urge to snap something he would probably regret later. Instead, he thumped the files back on his desk, hard. "Explain."

It was telling how Dom met his gaze. There was no remorse in it. He was never the type to apologize for doing what he thought he had to do. "Eames killed his last owner," he said, bluntly. "I extracted it from him when we went under the first time. He was abused very badly for three years, but was still clever enough to make it look like an accident so that he was simply sold off as part of the estate, rather than executed."

Arthur stared. "And you still bought him?"

"We needed a forger," Dom said.

A second burning wave of betrayal flooded through Arthur. He could taste it in the back of his throat.  "You should have _never_ kept this from me."

Dom sighed, as if Arthur was being the unreasonable one. "I knew I could keep an eye on him, and watch for signs he was testing his limits."

"Is that what you think this is?" Arthur demanded, holding up the notebook. "Because it looks like a prelude to a setup to me."

The look on Dom's face was hard. "I have it under control, Arthur," he said. "Eames has tested his boundaries once, and won't be doing anything like this again. I guarantee it."

There was a certain finality to those words that raised the hair on the back of Arthur's neck. "What do you mean?"

Dom looked away, his face tight and unhappy. "For my sake and yours, for James and Phillipa, I needed to know he'll think twice before... considering crossing us." He added, his voice lower, "I don't like doing it."

Arthur stared at him for a long minute. He wasn't an idiot, he knew what Dom was implying, but something recoiled inside at trying to reconcile it with his friend – the man who he knew was capable of so much care and generosity. "Owner and slave," he said, bitterly. "You two deserve each other."

Dom flinched, but didn't try to call him back as Arthur grabbed his jacket, snapped the PASIV lid shut, and strode out – seething at Dom for his secrets, and at Eames for his own. In that moment he even felt angry at Mal for throwing them into this mess, for shattering Dom and leaving Arthur to pick up the pieces.

He stomped down the sodden street, pissed off anew as he was soaked to the skin within minutes. But he wasn't about to go back.

The Mumbai streets were crowded with people headed for late shifts at work, and bald-headed slaves scurrying back and forth with domestic duties for their masters. Despite the downpour, Arthur was sweating with heat and the air was thick with the smell of hot spices and car exhaust.

_I want to go home_ , he thought, his voice sounding like a ten-year-old version of himself inside his own head.

He wanted to see his family again. Take up his older brother's long standing offer to help manage their father's old machine shop – celebrate Chanukah and light the menorah that sat upon their old scarred table, and eventually learn to dream unassisted again. No more living out of hotels, or coming across Mal's vicious projection, his friend's hollow eyes, or untrustworthy slaves.

... But that was just the type of boring future he had run away from when he joined the service, wasn't it? And eventually Dom's children would be orphaned, because there was no way Dom could do this alone. Not with the risks he regularly took.

Eames' voice came back to him from a dream they'd had together months ago: _"My master does love taking his risks. You, on the other hand, have a way of injecting logic into the situation. He listens to you."_

Eames, who had killed his last master before Dom. Not that Arthur was at all surprised.... or sorry to hear about it if Eames had been rented out as a dream-whore for three years, and probably abused otherwise.

Arthur was only certain he wouldn't have waited as long to do the same if he was in Eames' place.

Arthur stopped in his tracks, tilting his head to stare up at the slate-gray sky and let the water wash his face. He was a terrible excuse for a hardened criminal, he thought, as he turned and headed in the direction of Dom's hotel.

 

 

* * *

 

It was ridiculously easy to break into Dom's hotel room – so much so that Arthur made a mental note to revaluate his own security procedures. 

The first thing he heard as the door opened was the sound of rapid, shallow breathing, broken by a low, animalistic grunt. It would have sounded almost pornographic, in other circumstances.

Arthur hesitated at the threshold. He wasn't an idiot, or naive. He knew how slaves were typically disciplined – the ugly little reality that most liked to keep behind closed doors. It was something he didn't especially want to see, but at the same time... that was why he needed to come. He couldn't turn his back and pretend this wasn't happening.

He thought about how Eames called him 'darling' down in the dreams and how quick he was invent a solution around a problem; his dry sarcasm. How he had started to smile at Arthur, topside. An echo of the man he was locked in his own mind – fragile and hopeful and beautiful.

Arthur stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him.

Eames lay there on a cot set up for him at the foot of Dom's bed. He was turned away with his back to the door, curled up and trembling, his shirt was soaked through with sweat. Arthur could see a ring of red lights around his collar, slowly pulsating as it stimulated different pain centers of the brain.

As Arthur watched, a broken noise escaped from Eames' lips on a sharp exhale. The red lights flared briefly brighter and the sound cut off, jaws locking as Eames tensed and curled tighter around himself, shuddering in agony.

Slaves were not permitted to make a sound. Not even to scream.

It felt like Arthur had been standing there, paralyzed, for hours. In reality, it had only been a handful of seconds. He moved to kneel by the cot. The urge to rip the collar off was so fierce that he had to snatch his hand away at the last second. It would probably take a pair of bolt cutters to get through tempered steel, and even then, the device was made to short circuit with tampering, killing the slave and possibly electrocuting the person cutting it, too.

Eames rolled his head around to look at him. His eyes were half-lidded, his pupils contracted to tiny dots. Arthur still saw vague recognition break briefly through to wherever his mind had fled to escape. It died as the lights around the collar pulsed brighter again, drawing a horrible, strangled wheeze.

"Hold on, Eames. Just... hold on." Arthur's voice came out thankfully calm as he fished out his cell phone and punched the speed-dial.

"Turn it off," he said, the moment he heard the line click open.

There was pause from the other side. Then Dom said, "Damn it, Arthur..."

"Turn it off right now, Dom," Arthur's voice was as hard as steel. "Do it, or I'm out. I'll walk away."

Dom let out a long, aggravated sigh, and in it Arthur sensed that something had changed between them. Something important yet indefinable.

Then the red lights blinked off around the collar and Eames seemed to relax all at once, pulling in deep, sobbing breaths.

"I'll be in tomorrow." Arthur said, and hung up.

Before he could rise, Eames' hand closed about his wrist. "Thank you," he mouthed. "Thank you."

An echo of the cold anger he'd felt in the warehouse flared back up. Arthur shook off the grip and grabbed Eames' chin. "Look at me," he ordered, and waited until Eames' wide eyes fixed on him. "I stopped this because it's inhumane." His grip tightened to a painful strength – hard enough to leave bruises. "But if I _ever_ find out you tried to double-cross me or Dom, I'll drop-kick you so deep into your own subconscious you'll go insane _years_ before you ever wake up. Do we understand each other?"

Eames nodded, wearily, and when Arthur let him go he sagged to the cot.

Arthur stood up, venting the rest of his feelings giving a sharp kick to the boxspring of the hotel bed. Dom – who had been too squeamish to ever spank Phillipa or James – had been able to turn on the discipline settings of his slave's collar and walk away _knowing_ he would be in agony until he deemed it necessary to turn it off.

It worried him – made him wonder what his friend was becoming in this business, or if he had always been capable of this and Arthur had not seen it.

Eames had turned away from him again, his shaved head cradled in his own arms for the illusion of privacy. His shoulders shook as he wept – either out of delayed reaction from the punishment he'd just endured, or some sense of shame, Arthur didn't know.

Arthur sighed and shook his head.  If it were him in Eames' place... well. Arthur's "master" would be waking up with a knife lodged in his throat. Then again, this sort of treatment had been Eames' reality for over ten years. It was enough to grind anyone down.

The PASIV device was still by the door where he had set it down. Seeing it, Arthur hesitated, torn between wanting to give Eames space to collect himself and the knowledge that his mental defenses would be frayed from hours of pain.

He had come for answers, hadn't he?

For his part, Eames was limp and unresisting as Arthur took his arm and slid the needle in, hooking himself up after. Eames gave a breathless sigh as Arthur pressed the plunger and his eyes slid shut: It sounded like relief.


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

 

The dream-world around Arthur was cold and dimly lit, the sky above shaded purple and ran with unnatural racing fire. Fierce winds picked up loose sand from the nearby dunes and flung them, stinging, into Arthur's face. This was Eames' dream – his subconscious landscape as Arthur had hooked him up as both the dreamer and the subject.

Covering his eyes with his sleeve, Arthur called out, "Eames!" but there was no answer.

He walked blindly forward and eventually realized he was travelling up in an increasingly sharper incline. He risked a glance down at his shoes and noted stems of tough grass poking out from the sand. As he climbed, the wind slackened until, finally, he was able to lower his arm.

He was atop a grassy hill – a place midway between the sandstorm below and the violent purple sky above.

Eames stood fifty feet away. He had his back to Arthur, and was wearing the same dignified black peacoat Arthur had bought for him when they went shopping for the totem.

As Arthur drew closer, he realized Eames was standing before something – a simple headstone, its name and epitaph obscured by a thick layer of frost.

Eames glanced over his shoulder at Arthur's approach. His face was lined with stress and the remnants of pain, and for the first time in a dream Arthur saw a gleam of his silver collar around his neck. Still, it didn't seem to keep Eames from speaking.

"It was only ever a laugh," he said, as Arthur joined him. "Writing down notes in your and Master's handwriting. It was... there wasn't any harm in it, Arthur."

Arthur looked at him coldly. "You expect me to believe that?"

Eames glanced away uneasy. Arthur nodded to the headstone. "Who's this?"

Eames' lips tightened into a thin line. "You shouldn't ask questions to answers you already know."

And Arthur did. Or at least, he highly suspected. He knelt and brushed at the frost. The stone was so cold it sapped all of the warmth from his fingers, numbing them. He persisted, though, and a moment later the name was revealed.

 

_Martin John Eames III_

_  
_

Arthur sat back on his heels, taking in the implications of Eames placing a grave in his own subconscious landscape, the underlying meaning. Something buried and forgotten-- something Eames had _wanted_ to forget. Or was it a general wish for death?

"Does Dom know about this?"

"He does," Eames said, and his voice was the most bitter Arthur had ever heard from him. "He came in and dug it up on the day we met, didn't he? Extracted my secrets and laid them bare."

Arthur followed his gaze and saw a dirty shovel lying in the nearby grass as if it had been thrown carelessly to the side. Now that noticed, it seemed to stick out of the uniformly cut grass, like litter.

"What's buried down there?" Arthur asked, wondering if he was going to have to grab a shovel and do the same. The thought repelled him – it felt like a violation. Eames hesitated in answering and Arthur asked, "Eames?"

"Me," Eames said, lowly. "I'm what's down there." And he nodded to where some of the frost, warmed by Arthur's fingers, had melted into drips exposing more of the tombstone. The birthdate was just over thirty-four years ago, and the date of death a decade past – the day, presumably when Eames was made a slave.

Arthur stood slowly, frowning in thought. A skilled extractor such as Dom would be able to glean more meaning out of this, but he hadn't worked with him for years without picking up some tricks. "You split yourself and buried a portion down there. Which part?" But he had the answer even as he said it, in the way of dreams. Arthur's throat felt thick and he had to swallow hard to get the words out. "Your hope... maybe your ambition, too? Something else? Jesus, Eames."

Eames looked away, his hands clenching into fists. "I don't require your pity, Arthur. In fact, I don't want it."

In one swift move, Arthur swept Eames' legs out from under him, knocking him flat on his back to the ground. "You never had my pity," Arthur said, keeping his voice hard, and hoping Eames wouldn't hear the lie. "Get up, Mr. Eames."

Eames blinked at the unfamiliar title. He said nothing, but when he sat up, his neck was bare of the collar.

Arthur knelt again to brush away the rest of the frost. Eames let out a soft, "Don't," but Arthur ignored it and Eames made no move to stop him. The stone was so cold it nearly felt hot and his fingers had turned blue at the tips by the time the final words were uncovered.

 

 

_Sentenced to enslavement until death for treason against the crown._

 

_  
_

Out of all the possible crimes Arthur had allowed himself to contemplate, treason had not been one of them. Or, he thought, with the bottom dropping out from his stomach, a life sentence.  He glanced at Eames to see him on his knees as well, staring at his own sentence with a bleak expression.

"Were you guilty?" Arthur asked.

Eames' adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Yes—yes, of course I was."

_What did you do?_ Arthur wanted to know, but something in Eames' face begged him not to ask.

Collared until death. Eames' sentence didn't have an expiration at all. No wonder Dom had bought him, even with the risks. "How were you allowed to come up for private sale?" he asked. Eames' skills alone should have put him way out of Dom's price range, forty years or more of promised labor ahead of him should have made Eames doubly expensive. Triple.  

When Eames spoke, his voice was oddly detached, as if it was telling a story of what happened to someone else. "I wasn't meant to," he said, staring unblinking at the headstone. "When I was first put into collar, I was sent to work in a state run granite quarry in Cornwall. It was hard labor, brutal discipline and... promised a rather short lifespan. " He closed his eyes. "It took my sister eighteen months to bribe an official to mix up my paperwork. I understand she had to put a second mortgage on her house to do it. I had no idea of her plan, and would have told her not to bother if I could have. Obviously," he said, bitterly, "I was unable."

"You were sent to general auction," Arthur guessed.

"Yes." Eames opened his eyes to stare fixedly at the headstone again. "My master at the time didn't realize what he'd bought, my skills. He sold me soon after, in any case. After that, it was a succession of others over the years until I fell into the hands of the farmer."  

Arthur's heart lurched in his chest. He wanted to tell Eames to stop – that he didn't have to go on. The truth of the fact was that he didn't want to hear the abuse Eames had clearly suffered, recounted like this when he was beaten down and vulnerable. Arthur wasn't sure he could stand to hear it.

"He was the one you killed," he said, and if there was one thing he could do right it was keeping his own voice even and professional.

For his part, Eames didn't look surprised that Arthur knew. "Not soon enough," was all he said. "I wasn't the only one he..." He trailed off, shook his head. "I dusted his medication over time with pesticides. It was a cumulative effect, but when he finally died... he had already loaned me out to a neighbor of his for the weekend. And when _he_ realized the farmer was dead, he sold me back to the market with false paperwork he had me prepare."

Which went a long way to explain how Eames had ended up in that back alley shop. Arthur had to resist the urge to grab his hand, or pull him close, but he was afraid that Eames might take that as a sign of pity. Or worse.

Eames was silent for a long minute, his hands flat on his thighs, his head bowed. He didn't look at Arthur as he said. "I thought learning to forge yours and Master's handwriting would be wise, should it come in handy someday. But... there was no specific plan for it, Arthur. Do you believe me?"

"No," Arthur said, and saw Eames flinch. "I think if it were me I would do whatever it took to escape."

Eames' head snapped up, anger and despair flashing in his grey eyes. "There _is_ no escape possible for me. You see that, don't you?" He jabbed angrily at the epitaph. "I'm in the collar until the day I die, or unless I piss off a master enough to do the favor for me."

"Is that what this was about?" Arthur didn't want to hug Eames anymore. He wanted to hit him. "You –what—wanted to push Dom? Make it a suicide by owner?"

"No! No," Eames said again, deflating a little, lifting a hand to his eyes. He looked as if he had a headache. Over head, the racing fire had turned to a dull crimson with patches of blue sky appearing through the purple clouds. "Learning your hand was... it was a valuable to have. So when things inevitably go wrong, I'd be ready. That was all. It-- You do realize that the day is coming where Master will overstep his bounds and get himself arrested or worse. He's not like you or I. He's not fit to be a criminal."

Arthur nearly told him that he wasn't a criminal, either. Or at least, he didn't have a warrant sworn out under his true name. There was no point in handing over that information to Eames, so he simply said, "It's my job to make sure that doesn't happen. But if something were to get out of control, you have my promise you weren't placed back in general auction."

But far from reassuring him, Eames went a little pale. "Arthur," he said quietly, intently, still not looking at him. "It would kill me to call you master."

Arthur's heart gave a hard thud – he tried to push the burgeoning feeling back and reach for the cold anger and sense of betrayal he had felt in the warehouse, but it was nowhere to be found. _Shit_ , he thought helplessly, staring at Eames – complicated, witty, intelligent, and so, so strong despite everything he'd undergone. _Shit, I do care for him, don't I?_ Eames was so much more than Dom's talented slave, or even a coworker Arthur had grown to depend on, despite his better judgment.  He knew that if everything went to hell tomorrow – if Dom were to be arrested, Arthur would move heaven and Earth to make sure Eames was taken care of. And he knew, too, that it still wouldn't be enough for either of them.

"And I don't want a slave," Arthur said, quietly, his chest feeling tight.

Eames didn't answer right away. He risked a glance at Arthur, a tentative question in his eyes.

"We'll figure something out," Arthur said, holding Eames' gaze. Although he didn't know how.

He might feel something for Eames, but that didn't mean he trusted him even as far as he trusted Dom. How could he, knowing that if he were in Eames place he would say anything, do _anything_ to be free? And Eames, too, likely didn't have his full trust in Arthur. He had been treated as a workhorse at best, an object at worst... and loaned out by uncaring masters. It was no surprise that he was headshy about trust.

A slow, sad smile curved Eames' lips as if he saw the path of Arthur's thoughts and agreed. Then he nodded once and looked around, more actively alert than he'd been in the dream so far. The smile faded when his eyes landed on the shovel laying a few feet away. "Are you going to do it, then?" he asked. "Extract my secrets and see if I've been telling you the truth?"

A shudder Arthur couldn't quite suppress rolled down his spine.  "No."

Eames' eyes snapped back to him. "I could have been making the whole thing up," he said, voice careful.

"You didn't." Arthur rose to his feet, dusting off bits of grass stuck to his pants. His legs ached from kneeling so long. He held out his hand to help Eames to his feet, but when Eames only stared at him and didn't take it he said, "I'm sick of this dream."

His eyes were bright, his expression fragile. "Arthur..."

"Let's go somewhere else, Mr. Eames," Arthur said, firmly.

Eames' lips parted into a smile. He took Arthur's hand and stood. "I know just the place."

 

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

The rest of the job passed by quickly, for all that the tension between Arthur, Dom and Eames could have been cut with a knife. Eames, silent as he always was above, went about his work with a listless energy, as if something had gone out of him from his punishment from Dom and his confession to Arthur.  
  
Dom didn't make any mention of the incident to Arthur – or that he knew how Arthur had broken into his hotel room to get to Eames – and that only made things awkward. A giant elephant sitting in the middle of the room. Dom, too, was unusually withdrawn. He volunteered to take the PASIV at night and although Eames never mentioned anything – their supply of somnacin dwindled down faster than usual.  
  
As for Arthur... he hardly knew what to think. Only that every assumption about slaves (and Dom) which had been so black and white, now bled into gray. He found himself watching Eames work: writing in his notebook or doing simple chores around the warehouse, or else fiddling with the poker chip that was his totem, and always with the shining collar around his neck.  
  
Sometimes Dom would catch Arthur watching him, and Arthur would look away, fighting down an odd rolling sensation in his stomach. It felt like guilt and affection and _want_ all rolled into the same confusing mix. He didn't know what he felt for Eames... if he _should_ allow himself to feel for him at all. If it would be fair for either of them if he did.  
  
Before he could try to sort any of it out, the job ended – successfully for once, though it was a fluke of luck. Their mark's subconscious spit up the exact information they needed in a way that rarely happened. And before Arthur knew it, he was on his way out of the humidity of India in the monsoon season, several thousand dollars richer, and more torn than he'd ever been in his life.  
  
The next job was in Kenya, which was still hot, but at least it was a dry heat. With their somnacin supply so low, Dom was forced to procure another chemist. The new man was named Yusuf, and was a English ex-pat of east Indian decent.  
  
With Albert's still in mind, Arthur watched Yusuf carefully. But aside from some alarming experimentation with the compound, Yusuf seemed to an be easy-going chemist with a mind as keen as a razor's edge.  
  
"I’m developing a new mix," Yusuf told Arthur and Dom as he mixed various beakers of amber fluid together and stirred them over a low flame. "If it works, it should leave the function of the inner ear intact."  
"To make for an easier kick?" Arthur asked, intrigued.  
  
Yusuf nodded. "Just so."  
  
He tried the results on Eames, putting him under and then seeing what would wake him. Arthur watched from a careful distance away, his arms crossed, as Yusuf delivered a carefully measured slap to Eames' face. The slave didn't twitch a muscle. Nor did he wake when Yusuf next tipped the chair to the side, with him in it.  
  
"It doesn't seem I have it quite right," Yusuf sighed as he splashed a little water in Eames' face to wake him. Eames came alert at once and winced, rubbing at his shoulder where he had landed on it.  
  
"How was it while you were under?" Yusuf asked. "Did you notice any gravitational shift?"  
  
Eames shook his head. Retrieving a piece of paper, he wrote, "The dream felt murky, as if I were swimming through mud." He rubbed at his shoulder again.  
Arthur frowned and turned to Yusuf. "Next time you need to test something, use me."  
But to his surprise Eames shook his head and dropped his hand away from his shoulder, giving Arthur a half-smile. It was the first he'd seen from the slave since that terrible day on the last job.  
  
Yusuf looked from one to another, his eyebrows lifted. When Arthur cut him a quick glance, he cleared his throat and said, "I shouldn't require any more of that sort of testing. The compound clearly isn't ready – yet. However, I do have enough information to fill your order for the standard compound."  
  


****

 

Dom was gone more and more often, disappearing off on his own business, and Arthur tried not to notice. Dom was there when he was needed, which was the important thing – or at least, that's what he tried to tell himself.  
  
Sometimes Dom let Eames sleep in the warehouse instead of taking him back to his hotel with him at night. So it wasn't that big of a surprise for Arthur to find Eames still working in the warehouse later in the evening, when Arthur returned for a copy of the files on his mark. He heard Yusuf speaking quietly to Eames. His voice echoed through the empty warehouse.  
  
"—wanted to ask you before I made the offer."  
  
Something in Yusuf's tone made Arthur hesitate. Moving quietly, he kept to the shadows. Both Yusuf and Eames were in the middle of the warehouse, and neither had noticed him.  
  
"I assure you, the work would be easy." Yusuf continued as he used a rag to clean out a recently washed beaker. "Raji is becoming old and rather forgetful. Your task would be to oversee the clients as they sleep, and wake them up when their time is over. Sometimes you would be required to go under to check the stability of the dream, but for the most part they are experienced dreamers. No one would need hand-holding."  
  
Yusuf wanted to purchase Eames, Arthur realized. It was almost ludicrous. Dom wouldn't sell him at any price.  
  
Or would he? After all, Eames had been causing trouble recently.  
  
Maybe he should have been relived. From his background check, he knew Yusuf had a dream den operation on the side. Surely, that would be safer for Eames in the long run. No chance of being put up for auction if Dom were to be arrested, or shot at by competitors, or killed in dreams by his master's psychotic projections...  
  
But Arthur's throat felt tight, and he let out a slow breath when Eames looked at Yusuf and shook his head.  
  
"You're sure?" Yusuf asked, cocking an eyebrow. "I can offer you one day off a month and three meals a day. My sister does the cooking, which is a shame, but she can fry a crisp pani puri."  
  
Eames shook his head again, then looked away.  
  
"Pity," Yusuf said. But he didn't seem put out about it. "Hand me the size two flask, will you?"  
  
Quietly, Arthur backed away, then made more noise than usual opening and closing the warehouse door and striding back in. Yusuf greeted him cheerfully, not making any mention of his offer.  
  
Eames went about carefully cleaning the rest of Yusuf's equipment. He did not look up at Arthur, or make any attempt to meet his gaze at all.

 

****

 

 

It was a couple of days before Arthur had a moment alone in a dream with Eames. They were on the deck of an old style steamboat which was making its way down the wide, muddy banks of the Mississippi. Arthur had no idea why his mind had picked this setting – he had plugged in without forethought and had assumed he would end up in his subconscious park.

The Mississippi separated east from west. Perhaps he was straddling something that divided him as well.

"Why didn't you take Yusuf up on his offer?" Arthur demanded, the moment Eames melted out of a small crowd of early 19th century tourists and joined him at the railing.

Eames blinked at him in surprise, but didn't try to deny it. "I thought your entrance was a bit well timed the other night."

Arthur grit his teeth. "Our line of work is dangerous," he said. "Yusuf could offer you stability, an easy workload—"

"And I'd be a lab rat on the side," Eames cut in. He leaned his elbows on the railing and looked out towards the swampy banks. "This is an interesting setting. Almost romantic, for you."

"I don't think Yusuf would cruel," Arthur said, refusing to be sidetracked.

Eames sighed. "You can't know that, darling. You never really know until they have the remote to the collar in their hands."

"I could−"

"What? Purchase me from Cobb? Grant me a little home in the country? Hm? A little preserve where I could run free like−" Eames stoped the rest of what he was going to say with a shake of his head.

"Like what?" Arthur pressed.

"Doesn't matter," he muttered. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be short with you."

"It's fine," Arthur said. "I don't care if you get angry about your situation. Maybe you should be."

But Eames shook his head and looked away. "It doesn't do any good. I've learned that, if nothing else."

"Eames--"

"Just drop it, Arthur," he said. "Please."

Arthur couldn't. There were times when he saw flickers of the man in the dream up above, but for the first time in a long time he was seeing the slave down below. It alarmed him and gave him courage to ask the question that had been haunting him since that night. "Did you turn down Yusuf's offer because of me?"

Eames took and let out a long breath. "You know that until Cobb purchased me and you started stepping in you officious way, I... it had been years since I had been allowed to make a decision for myself. That first day you handed me a sack of clothing and asked me to pick out something to wear for myself, I'd almost forgotten how." He turned towards Arthur, his eyes were grey flint. "The other night I made a decision for myself and for my future. I don't expect you to agree with it, but I do ask you respect it."

Arthur studied him for a long moment. "Okay." He had been wrong. This wasn't the slave leaking into the dream. This was Eames, completely in control of himself. "Okay," he said again, turning to look out the muddy water.

He didn't miss the fact that Eames hadn't answered his question at all.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is my birthday, so I decided to celebrate by updating again. XD However before you read, I referenced a warning for torture in the first chapter. That comes into play here.

 

 

Yusuf departed a few days later, leaving them with a supply of somnacin to last. Before Arthur knew it, they were back to taking the types of jobs no one else would.

Arthur stared across the table at Dom as he laid out the details of their next mark and his initial ideas for the extraction. Horror had temporarily rendered him speechless.

"Are you fucking kidding me with this?" His voice came out low, quiet, and to his own ears, calm. Or maybe not so calm. Dom and Eames' heads both snapped up to look at him.

"Granted," Dom started, "it's a risk, but I wouldn't have agreed unless I thought it could be done."

"You want us to dip into a psychopath's mind," Arthur said, still with that steel calm in his voice. "A man who is suspected of killing and dismembering--" he paused to look over the notes, "at least five children."

"There's no indication he's militarized−"

"And you want to use Eames as bait."

Dom pulled a face. "We need a scenario where Nelson will lead us to his lair. That's where he will keep his secrets. Assuming he's guilty, of course. The best way to do that is to recreate a scene where he will be tempted."

Arthur clenched his fists under the table. "I'm not allowing any of my team to be put in that kind of a position. We can use projections−"

"Any projection we use wouldn't be fully in our control. They would also have our subconscious knowledge and fears." Dom shook his head. "Could you imagine any part of yourself allowing itself to be kidnapped, knowing what you know? Whatever happens, Nelson has to be drawn in."

Eames caught Arthur's eye and nodded once.

"See?" Dom said. "He agrees."

"Of course he does. He's your slave. He doesn't have a choice," Arthur snapped, a bitter taste welling in the back of his throat.

Dom leaned forward across the table, "Arthur," he said, using what Mal used to call his puppy-dog eyes. "The local police can't catch this man. Interpol can't pin a thing on him. Our client is looking for closure for his little girl. We can provide that."

Arthur seethed, but short of walking away from this, he didn't see much of an out. Dom had already agreed and therefore Eames was involved too. It was just a matter if Arthur was going to come along or not.

"Fine," he all but spat. "But we make this maze airtight. We watch Eames _every_ second he's with that man, and I don't care if he is forging a little girl. He's packing a gun."

 

 

****

 

 

For all of its danger, the plan for the extraction was simple. That was good because their timeline called for less than a week to plan.

Arthur watched from his secure spot, standing beside a park bench as Eames' forgery of a little girl played on a jungle-gym. She was perhaps six or seven years old, with dishwater hair down to her waist, barefoot and wearing a floral sundress. She reminded Arthur of Phillipa in some ways. By all accounts, she was just the mark's type.

He risked a glance away from her to see if he could spot Dom, who should have taken his position on the opposite end of the park. He was well hidden. Good. As soon as the mark made his move, Arthur wouldn't let them out of his sight for an instant.

All of Arthur's attention was on Eames who was putting himself out like a juicy worm on a hook. He heard no sound behind him. There was no warning at all until a strong arm wrapped around his neck from behind.

Arthur stomped hard on the foot behind him – noted the pair of strappy black heels. He drew in breath to shout for Dom or Eames, but something pricked the side of his neck. And as he felt himself fall he heard Mal's beautiful voice.

"See? This is who came to steal from you. Did I not tell you he would be lovely?"

 

****

 

 

When Arthur came back to himself, he was laying back against a table. The air conditioned air felt cold against his naked skin. He tried to move, but his arms were restrained, tied firmly down with zip-ties. And for a moment he flashed to a show he'd half caught one night in a hotel between jobs – Dexter?

Arthur opened his eyes to take a quick assessment of the room – clean lines, and sterile walls of what looked like an autopsy theater. A florescent light buzzed over head. And Mal perched over on a nearby countertop, watching him come awake with a smile on her face.

He was still dreaming.

Their mark, Nelson was off to the side, preparing wicked looking tools on a tray. His back was to Arthur as if he presented no threat at all. Arthur flexed his arms, but the zip-ties held firm.

Mal made a tisking sound. "You know better than that. You taught me how to tie knots."

"You're not Mal," Arthur ground out.

"Aren't I? Tell me, what is real Arthur? If up there is so real, why do you insist on returning to this world over and over again?" She slid off the counter and came to Arthur's side, walking two fingers up his bare torso. He tried not to shudder. "Is it for him? My husband's slave?"

Arthur ignored her and craned his neck towards Nelson who was still fiddling with the host of small probing tools and what looked like a rack of fillet knives. It was obvious that Mal had sabotaged the extraction, but maybe there still was a way to salvage this.

"You know who we are," Arthur said. "You know that we were hired by the father of one of the children you killed. This is the easy way, Nelson. Just show me what you did, where you hid the missing body parts. Or we'll beat it out of you topside. Your choice."

Nelson turned and held up a small scalpel to the harsh light as if to examine it for flaws. "Mrs. Cobb tells me that I'm in a dream, and consequently there are things possible here that wouldn't be in reality." He eyed the length of Arthur's naked body up and down, like a butcher overlooking a prize steer. "I confess that I do enjoy the innocence of children, but... they are such fragile things."

Arthur felt a rush of cold fear and he ruthlessly pushed it aside. "It doesn't matter what you do. None of this is real. Once Dom and Eames realize I'm--"

Mal's laugh cut him short. "Why should my husband think to look for you, when he only has eyes for me? Especially when he's not certain of your loyalties. " Her smile was as knowing as it was horrible, and the fear seemed to congeal in Arthur's stomach.

"This isn't who you are, Mal," he said. "We were friends. Why are you doing this?"

She looked at Nelson. "Be sure to put in the mouth guard, so he does not bite his own tongue off."

 _It's a dream_ , he told himself. _He'll kill me and I'll wake up. I'll put a bullet in his head myself. It's not real. It's not real..._

Nelson's leer was anticipatory as he leaned over to make his first cut.

 

 

****

 

 

 

Arthur was beyond pain; was nearly beyond all reason and thought. His throat was blistered from screaming and each breath he took was with an ugly, wet sound.

Mal herself had dabbed both tears and blood away from his eyes so he could _see_ everything done to him. He didn't know how long it had been – hours maybe years since Nelson started dissecting him alive, removing strips of skin and parts of himself that should have never seen the light of day.

He didn't know how he was still alive, or if he even was anymore. He only wanted it to end – had eventually broken down and begged for it to end, only to have Mal cup his jaw lovingly while Nelson carved deeper.

"Stay awake, Arthur," Mal said. "It's so fascinating, all of the parts in a body."

The door to the room burst open at once. Dom and Eames stood there. Dom took one look around the room and recoiled, an arm over his mouth.

"My god, Arthur..." Eames' face was terrible as he pointed the gun and pulled the trigger.

 

 

 

****

 

 

Arthur awoke, curling in on himself, his palms rubbing over his chest, his stomach, his face, all whole – but he had felt his own skin rip away, the sound of it and the smell of his own blood and bowels.

He heard an angry male voice above him. Someone touched his neck, seeking a pulse. Then the touch was gone and Arthur looked up to see Dom yelling something at Eames, and Eames rising from Arthur's side, that same furious expression on his face he'd had in the dream, as he punched Dom right in the mouth.

Dom staggered back, and Arthur tried to sit up, tried to get between them because he _knew_ what was coming, but his body was slow, moving on half-speed. Dom's hand fell to his pocket and withdrew the remote that went to Eames' collar. He pressed one of the red buttons.

The last thing Arthur saw before the world around him went black was Eames making a strangled, wheezing noise, and sinking to his knees as the lights around his collar flared red.

Then there was nothing.

 

 


End file.
